Slave Verse 2: Stop the President, Stop the World
by Gamebird
Summary: Peter has both his memories and his powers back. He and Sylar team up to take down the president, Nathan, who is principly to blame for the social upheaval, slavery, and persecution of specials.
1. Caution Signs

**A/N: If you want the backstory to this, read Slave Verse 1: Sylar buys a memory wiped Peter. I don't think it's really necessary. This is an alternate universe where Nathan turned evil and became the president. People with powers were persecuted (horrifically) and slavery was instituted on all those deemed "undesirable" in society. Those who had abilities, when they were captured, were permanently neutralized. **

**Sylar, smart guy that he is, had avoided this. Peter was manipulated by his brother and was instrumental in putting Nathan in power. However, while working to undermine those resisting the president, Peter was accidentally captured and processed as a sex slave. Sylar found him and bought him before Nathan and then shortly thereafter fell in love with him. He reversed the neutralization of Peter's abilities and that's where this story begins - with Sylar trying to figure out what the new relationship is, now that Peter has his abilities and memories both restored to him.**

**Stop the President; Stop the World**

Sylar smiled, cautiously. In a way, this was as exhilarating as having Peter as a slave. Now he had him as a partner - or he might. It was like handling a venomous snake, never knowing if you might annoy it and get fatally bitten. He bent to kiss Peter again, brushing his lips rather than forcing him to take him like he had nearly every other time they'd kissed. Peter matched him, eyes open and watching the whole time. Sylar finally couldn't take the intense gaze. He shut his eyes and melded his mouth with Peter's, harder, and let his hands slide down over the other man's back.

When they broke, they were both breathing harder. Peter was mostly erect – his nudity making his condition obvious. "You know what I want?" Peter breathed.

"No, what?" Sylar answered in kind, expecting a revelation of a sexual nature.

"Solid food."

Sylar blinked at him and straightened a little. Peter smiled teasingly. "You want me, right?"

"Yes," Sylar said hesitantly.

"Good," Peter said. "You'll get me… _if_ you'll get me food." He smiled and it looked innocent and guileless and completely out of place.

Sylar smiled a little and kissed Peter again, a little more forcefully. For now, Peter responded, but when he started to push him back on the bed, Peter twisted to one side, his body tensing. They both stopped instantly, each aware of how powerful they were and how quickly this could become seriously violent - as well as how delicate their relationship truly was. It could be shattered with a single misstep. Sylar eyed Peter, still so close they were touching, both men frozen in place as they worked out the new balance of power between them. Sylar asked without moving, "What if I just take what I want?"

Peter's smile lit up his face, crinkling around his eyes. "I don't think you _can_." Sylar shifted his weight slightly and suddenly Peter was solicitous again so fast it made Sylar blink. "Hey, hey," Peter crooned, touching Sylar soothingly with both hands along his arms. "All I want is something to eat. Please, master. That's all. I'll let you fuck me however you want. I'll make you happy. I'll take it right from your lips if you'll let me. I'm just so hungry. I haven't had anything solid to eat in _days_." He scooted up inside Sylar's arms and kissed the point of his chin, then his lower lip.

Sylar swallowed and leaned down a little so Peter could carry on more easily. Peter took the hint, begging energetically of him. When it had gone on long enough to salve Sylar's ego, he said, "What if I say no?"

Peter sunk back slowly, watching him, a distant, disappointed expression stealing across his face. He scooted backwards onto the bed. "What position do you want me in?" His voice was neutral, betraying neither anger nor sadness, but utterly devoid of enthusiasm.

Sylar looked away, feeling shamed even though he knew Peter was shamelessly manipulating him. After all, if Peter really wanted something to eat, he could just go invisible, teleport wherever and help himself. It said something that he was still _here_, given all the other places in the world he could be at the moment. "I didn't say I _would_ say no."

Peter took that as a 'yes' and bounded off the bed, circling to him and hugging him unabashed. "Thank you, master! Thank you!"

"Stop it," Sylar grumbled. The act was a little overdone.

Peter grabbed one of his hands and pulled him along after him to the kitchen. "Come on!" He was acting like a child, but it was done so freely that it seemed real, almost like the real him shining through. Once in the kitchen, Peter turned to Sylar and said, "Okay, so is this one of those places where you can put in an order for food and groceries and stuff and they go out and get it, right, like a hotel?"

"Like a luxury apartment, which is what this is, yes," Sylar allowed.

"Okay. This is what I want." Peter snatched the notepad from under the vid-phone and made a quick list. "There. And the chicken alfredo I want prepared, like at a restaurant."

"They have one on the second floor," Sylar mumbled, looking at the list. It was simple – milk, cream, a fruit tray, yogurt, steak, ice cream, chocolate syrup, and chicken alfredo.

"You should pick a dinner for yourself, too," Peter said, dropping to his knees in front of Sylar. "Something prepared." He started unfastening his slacks.

"What are you doing?" Sylar stood blinking down at him, holding the list in one hand and grabbing the top of his pants with the other.

"That's the vid-phone, right?"

Sylar looked at the wall-mounted device right in front of him. "Uh… yes."

"Good. Make the call." Peter tugged Sylar's pants out of his hand and shoved them down around his knees. He hooked his fingers in the elastic of his underwear. "Call."

"Um," Sylar said. Peter was grinning up at him, slowly pulling down his underwear an inch at a time.

Peter stopped about halfway and rubbed his face against Sylar's groin, still covered by cotton fabric. "Mmm. If you don't call, I'll have to find something else to do with my time." He turned and started mouthing the tip of Sylar's cock through the cloth.

The feeling shot through Sylar like a jolt. "Oh! Um. Yes. Calling. Now." He looked down at Peter. "Right now? Can't you just wait until I'm done?"

Peter chuckled huskily. "You're going to be done before you finish that call."

"Are…? What?" _Was that a challenge?_

"Call." Peter pulled his underwear down and sucked Sylar's dick into his mouth, making Sylar grab the counter with both hands. Then Peter froze and nothing happened. He looked down at his lover, who pointed at the vid-phone.

"Of course," Sylar said, almost panting. He dialed the simple extension for client services.

A cheery, familiar face answered, "Good morning, Mr. Grey. What can I help you with today?"

Sylar realized he should have turned off the vid function, even though Peter was safely below the pickup zone. He still could. He could feel Peter's mouth hot around his member though, massaging it to hardness. He could do this. He could last. He put the list on the counter in front of him. "I need to have lunch delivered –oh!- and," he panted as Peter was suddenly really getting into it. Sylar shifted his hips, leaning forward towards the phone. _What was I saying? Oh yeah._ "Groceries. I have a list."

"Of course, sir." She sounded a little confused. Peter bobbed on him aggressively, but when he waited too long, the motion stopped abruptly and Peter tightened his grip almost painfully around the base of Sylar's cock. "Sir?" the receptionist asked as Sylar grimaced.

"Ow!"

"Sir? Are you alright?"

"Yes, damnit, I'm fine." He looked down at Peter, who teasingly flicked the side of his shaft with his tongue, but did nothing else.

At this point, apparently the receptionist clued because her voice changed a little from cheery to 'let's get this over with'. "You said you had a grocery list."

His head snapped back up. "Yes, I do." And Peter began again. "Ug… Milk, cream, and… uh…" He was breathing harder, trying to suppress the urge to push forward into Peter's mouth in rhythmic, but obvious motions.

"Sir?"

"What?" he snapped.

"2%, whole, skim or chocolate?"

"What?" He looked up at her from where his gaze had fallen downward.

The receptionist had a tight, polite smile on her face. "The milk, sir. 2%, whole, skim or chocolate?"

"Uh, I don't care. Oh, um, whole, I guess." Peter had finally slowed down a little, not that it was a big help. "A fruit tray… Ooooh."

"I need a size for the milk." Her voice was dry.

"What?"

"Do you want to call back later, sir?"

"No! No. He won't… never mind. Christ, I don't know. A gallon."

"Very good, sir. And the cream – half and half or whipping cream?"

Peter shifted and held up three fingers, high enough it was in the vid phone's viewing zone. Sylar froze. It wasn't like she hadn't caught on quite a while ago, but still… and what did three fingers mean, anyway? "Whipping cream," the receptionist said. "Yes, sir." Sylar's head snapped back to looking at her. _Yeah, I suppose that was a W._ Her expression was amused now. _Why is it when Peter does something everyone thinks it's sweet and cool and just fine, but when I'm doing it, it's evil and rude and twisted?_

Sylar didn't say anything, except a muffled "Oof" when Peter stopped again, pulling off and putting his head against the cabinet behind him. The receptionist saved him by asking, "Fruit tray for two, four, six or more?"

"Four," Sylar said, relaxing a little. Peter pumped steadily at his well-slicked member, staring up at him adoringly. Sylar tore his eyes away.

"Tropical fruit, seasonal, or traditional?"

"I really have no idea…" Sylar said weakly. What he had no idea about was how he was going to manage to avoid coming by the end of this. It had been such a simple list. Why were there two or three questions about every item?

The receptionist said, "I'll send up traditional. If you don't like it, you can return it."

"Thank you," he said, infinitely grateful. Peter was back to using his mouth. Sylar didn't think he was going to make it.

"Was that all?"

"Yes." Peter bit him. "OW! No! No. No, it wasn't. Um.. yogurt and steak and…" Peter sucked him hard and rubbed his tongue vigorously over where his teeth had marked him. "Oh my God…"

"Sir? Sir? Wait. What kind of yogurt?"

"Plain!" He bit his lip, giving it up and beginning to rock his hips to match Peter's ministrations. "Two servings, whatever the hell that is!"

"Very good, sir. And the steak? What cut?"

"Top sir… um, ribeye. Twelve ounces." Peter dug his fingernails into the exposed skin of his butt cheeks. "Ow! Damnit! I don't know… Two of them. No, four. No… yeah. Four."

"Four twelve ounce ribeyes. Was there anything else?"

"Oh, sweet Jesus."

"Sir?"

"Ice cream. Vanilla. One… whatever. Quart, half gallon, I don't care. Ohh, that is _so_ good…"

"Anything else, sir?" He couldn't tell if the receptionist was amused or annoyed. He didn't care, either. His eyes were screwed up shut as he was approaching his peak. He was sure he was giving her a show, but he just couldn't stop.

"Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Oh, oh… oh!" Peter racked his nails down his thigh. "Oh my God. Yeah. Chocolate syrup. That's… Oh my God! Ah!" He came. He spoke weakly, "That was it. I think so. That was it. I made it."

Peter pulled off, snorted and stood up, pushing Sylar out of the way. He leaned forward, showing off his chest and folding his arms, making it sort of obvious that he was naked without actually showing anything. He reached up and brushed his hair back out of his face, smiling gorgeously, making an instant connection. The receptionist's mouth fell open slightly and her eyes widened. Peter said, "We also need some chicken alfredo with standard sides from the restaurant and… oh, get some meatloaf for Buster here. How long will that take to deliver?"

"Oh," she said breathily, admiring Peter's form. He leaned forward and shifted his hips back and forth, swaying. "Oh… just thirty minutes, sir!"

"Thank you," he said, and gave her a small smile that obviously affected her. "I couldn't have done it without you." His smile widened to a conspiratorial grin and she giggled. He pressed the button to end the call and turned to Sylar, who hung limply against the nearby counter, leaning with his back to it and propped up on his elbows.

"So," Peter said. "We have thirty minutes."


	2. Thirty Minutes

**A/N: Not to worry - the "Stop the President" part of the plot will arrive soon. Just not this chapter.**

"Mister Grey," Peter said. "That's clever. It's like Mister Black or Mister Pink."

"What?" Sylar said.

"You know, Reservoir Dogs. That movie?"

"I… I've heard of a movie called Reservoir Dogs." Clearly he hadn't seen it.

"Okay. Well, in it, there's these guys and they all get names based on colors. So you're Mr. Grey. If you didn't name yourself after that, then… lemme guess… is your first name 'Morally'?" He laughed.

Sylar was not laughing. "Peter, it's my name. It's no big secret. Client services has it. It's Gabriel Grey."

"Gabrielle? That's a girl's name. Why'd you pick that?" He was grinning, teasing, ribbing Sylar.

Sylar glared at him, not bothering to correct the pronunciation. Peter laughed harder. "Oh my God! That's your _real_ name? Oh wow. Girl's name, totally. I called it. No wonder you're such a dork."

Sylar ground his teeth. "Well at least my mother didn't name me _Penis_."

Peter sobered. "Yeah, my mother. She would." He shook his head, the humor gone entirely at the mention of her. "Whatever." Peter moved abruptly back to the matter at hand and sashayed over to press himself against Sylar, looping his hands behind the taller man's neck. "So what are you going to do to keep me occupied for the next thirty minutes?"

Sylar stiffened at the contact and drew back a little. The rapid mood changes were hard to deal with. "Peter, you just sucked me off. I'm not going to be ready for a while." He gestured at the vid-phone. "You're such a perv. Forever after now, they're going to talk about me down in client services as the guy who called them while getting head."

Peter laughed and shifted his hips back and forth, rubbing himself on his partner. "Oh, you know you love me anyway," he teased.

"Yeah, I do, but-" Sylar cut off instantly. Peter went immediately from playful to loving. He put his head down sideways on the top of Sylar's chest, shifting his hands so they cupped the back of Sylar's head instead of having his fingers laced together. He relaxed against him quietly while Sylar took several deep breaths. "I…"

Peter said softly, but distinctly, "If you don't say anything, I'll pretend you didn't say anything either. Fair?"

Sylar didn't say a word. He was still trying to decide if that was A) a meaningless slip of the tongue, B) something Peter had manipulated him into saying, or C) something he actually meant.

After a beat, Peter straightened and said, "Hey! Do you have a dildo around here?"

"A what?" he said dumbly.

"A dildo."

"A dildo? What the hell would I need with a dildo, Peter?"

Peter gave him a confused look and then laughed. "Well, if you've got something around here that might work, then I'll show you exactly what you might do with a dildo!" He grinned. "So, I take it you don't, huh? I didn't find one yesterday, either."

"That's what you tossed my place for yesterday? A dildo?" Peter hadn't made a huge mess with his search, but he'd made no effort to conceal it either.

"Sure. I didn't think you'd let me put my dick in you, but maybe you'd let me do something else." Peter went over and opened the fridge. "Don't suppose you have any cucumbers, do you?" He pulled out a soy sauce bottle with a long, narrow neck and considered it.

Sylar pushed himself off and snatched the bottle from him. "You are **not** using any food products or containers for sexual gratification."

"Oh really? You say that. Just wait until that chocolate syrup gets here."

Sylar's mouth hung open.

"And just what did you think the whipping cream was for?" Peter added. He smirked and walked off into the bathroom, where he contemplated various objects there. When Sylar followed him in, having refastened his clothes, Peter said, "At least you do actually own some personal lubricant, so you get points for that. No condoms though. That's kind of arrogant and self-centered." He looked around and shrugged. "Listen, I didn't see anything around here yesterday that would really work, aside from the broom, the feather duster, your toothpaste here, this hairbrush-"

"Stop it," Sylar interrupted. "That's enough." It was going to be hard enough to sweep the floor without thinking about… whatever. He eyed his hairbrush.

"Really?" Peter said, turning to him. "Because, you know, I want some 'sexual gratification' here. And you were saying you couldn't help me. Or did I misunderstand?" He raised his brows and took a step towards Sylar, aggression clear in his demeanor.

"Ah… There's help and then there's… help. I…" He looked down at Peter's groin. "I'm not as good at it as you are, Peter." In fact, he'd had very little experience giving oral sex, if that was what Peter was getting at. He had, just because he could shape shift and he wanted to know what it was like to be on the giving end, but that was it.

Peter walked over to him and hugged him, drawing Sylar's arms around him. Then he turned in place and put his hands over Sylar's. He put one on his chest and the other on his penis. "This is all the help I'll need." He started using Sylar's hands to manipulate himself. "You might want to back up against a wall though. I like to push."

Sylar started to just back up where he was, but Peter directed him over a couple feet so he went there instead. He saw why when he looked up. Ahead of them was the bathroom mirror, showing Peter's naked body lying back against him, one of Sylar's arms wrapped possessively around his chest and another stroking his member. Sylar felt a surge of arousal despite his earlier protest. Peter had his head thrown back against Sylar's shoulder, lips parted and lids heavy as he used one hand to help Sylar work his shaft and the other was bunching restlessly in the fabric of Sylar's slacks, on the side of his hip.

"Ooh, Peter," Sylar said, his voice low and suddenly husky. Peter grinned but said nothing, slowly increasing the tempo with his hand, beginning to rub his body up and down Sylar's.

Sylar watched, devouring the scene in front of him with his eyes. It was like watching porn with himself in a starring role, holding the most sensitive, personal part of the most powerful person in the world in his hand, watching as that person's mouth opened wider in a wordless expression of excitement, eyelids fluttering… knowing that he was the one controlling this person, bringing them pleasure or pain depending solely on his grip. Sylar pinched his nipples, getting little jerks and twitches from him every time, feeling Peter grind his body against his.

Sylar realized he was getting an erection again. Peter was panting now, rubbing his buttocks back and forth across his groin more than up and down now, wagging his tail into him. "Take me," Peter pleaded, his voice high and needy, plaintive and begging.

"No," Sylar said. "I want you to come first," and for a second, Peter's expression changed dramatically. It sobered. He blinked. He looked genuinely surprised… and then he was back exactly where he had been before: panting and rubbing. If Sylar hadn't been watching him in the mirror he wouldn't have seen it - he would have just thought Peter's breath had caught and there was nothing else to it. He tightened his grip and began to bite the side of Peter's neck roughly, holding him firmly to him to prevent some of Peter's gyrations.

Peter tensed against him, not really struggling, but making Sylar work to hang onto him. He jerked him harder and finally Peter's hand left his and he wrapped both behind him, grabbing the sides of Sylar's cheeks as he shoved rhythmically back into him. Sylar wished like hell he'd taken him up on the offer to fuck him because his dick was so hard it hurt and the smashing pressure was painful enough to be distracting. After wincing a fourth time at it, he moved his mouth to Peter's ear and growled, "Stop pushing into me or I'll bite your fucking ear off, Petrelli."

Peter shivered and laughed, but he stopped moving his hips. He stood straighter, threw his head back and stuck his chest out as his cock began to throb under Sylar's hand. He flushed. _So beautiful,_ Sylar thought, watching all of Peter's myriad reactions in the mirror, feeling the man shudder in his arms as he came. Semen spurted across the tile floor. Peter made a tiny squeak of pleasure and then slowly relaxed, melting into him and letting Sylar support him.

After a minute or two to recover his breath, Peter turned and nuzzled Sylar under the chin. He wagged his ass across him. Sylar was still painfully hard. He jumped at the sensation. It was almost too much. "Master?" Peter asked.

"Yes, pet?" He adored Peter calling him that, all the moreso because Peter had no reason to do it now except to please him.

Peter smiled at the role play. "I would like to please you, master. Would it please you to fuck my ass, sir?"

Sylar shifted his weight slightly, thinking uneasily about the last and first time he'd tried to take him. "Yes, it would please me."

Peter rubbed himself against him again. "Let me please you, master. I want to be a good slave," he crooned. "So good…"

Sylar still didn't move towards opening his pants. He ran his hands up and down the body in front of him, watching in the mirror. "Earlier," he turned his mouth to murmur in Peter's ear. "When I turned you down… why did you have that reaction?"

"I just wanted to please you, master." Peter's voice betrayed nothing.

Sylar jerked him to the side and spanked him across the bottom with a single open-handed blow. "Tell me! Or I will discipline you as I have not before." He leaned in close again. "You know… now that you can heal, I can get away with almost anything with you."

"Fuck me," Peter said, his voice low. He twisted his head and kissed Sylar hard for a moment. He bit his lip and pulled it back until it hurt, then let go. "Fuck me and don't ask questions. Please." And for once, there seemed like there was a tone of emotional honesty in that. Sylar's eyes flickered. He gave a shallow nod, and reached down to get rid of his pants.

Sylar took his cock in his hand and rubbed it against the cleft of Peter's ass. "Lube," he said almost absently. He wasn't in a hurry to move things along. He was still dwelling uncomfortably on the last time.

Peter spat copiously, reached back and smeared the top of his shaft, and then bent forward, expertly putting Sylar exactly where he needed to be. Sylar saw the muscles of his back flex, his butthole puckered and then he pressed backwards onto him, taking him in one easy stroke. "Oh, shit!" Sylar said, surprised. Well, that was one way to get over his hesitancy.

Peter laughed, his body shaking, but he started pulling back and forth and working himself back, pinning Sylar between himself and the wall as he was partly bent over. When Sylar was in balls deep, Peter started to straighten, then said, "Bend your knees a little and put them out, part your legs around me." Sylar obeyed and Peter leaned back against him.

"Oh God," Sylar said, feeling Peter's slick heat all around him. "Why the hell was it impossible the other day? I've been with virgins who were easier!"

"You scared the crap out of me, Sylar. All I could think was how I didn't want you in me. I just got scared." This too rang with the truth. He muttered, "I have a lot of muscle control, but it's not like I knew that."

Sylar was quiet for a moment, trying to figure out how to move and what he could do where he was at. "I can't thrust in this position."

"Just flex. In a little bit I'll bend over and you can go after it." Peter started moving up and down on him, only an inch or two, but his sphincter clutched and relaxed over him at all the right points. "Here. Let me."

"Oh God." Sylar put his head back against the wall, his hands only lightly resting on Peter's hips as he moved. "I don't know why I even bother. Just let you fuck yourself on me." He lifted his hands to stroke the tips of his fingers down Peter's back, making him arch and groan and break out in gooseflesh. Seeing his reaction made Sylar's whole body tingle. "That's… Oh my God, Peter. That's awesome. It's wonderful."

Sylar looked past Peter to watch him in the mirror, watching him move himself up and down on him, an expression of concentration gracing his face. Peter spotted Sylar looking and smiled at him. It was such a small smile, like they were sharing a secret, but for some reason it put Sylar right over the edge. "Oh. Oh… Ohhh! I'm going to…"

He moved his hands back to Peter's hips, digging into flesh. He wanted nothing more than to stand up straight, bend him over and pound him, but he made himself stay where Peter had put him and let Peter bring him off. His legs shook and threatened to betray him when he came. A second later he used telekinesis to keep himself up, but his concentration was poor. He started to slip. Peter followed him down and kept clenching on him until the last aftershock had passed.

Sylar finally pushed Peter away and off of him. "Stop that," Sylar said weakly, managing to get back on his feet instead of sliding down the wall.

Peter looked him over and seemed to divine that he had really had enough for the moment. Or maybe he was just aware of the time. He got a washcloth, wet it and brought it to him. Sylar took it and wiped himself, then recovered his pants from where he'd kicked them aside.

"How the hell did you learn all this stuff?" Sylar asked, mystified. He pulled his pants on.

"The hard way," Peter said, an uncharacteristic edge to his voice. "Drop it." The last was said curtly, in the tone of a command. Sylar obeyed, making a mental note on the subject.

Peter glanced over at the clock and pressed himself to Sylar, looping his arms around his neck. "Hey, we might have three or four minutes left. Whaddaya say I bend you over in front of the elevator so they can get a real show when they come to drop off our stuff?"


	3. Making Up

"Er," Sylar said articulately at Peter's rude suggestion. It was shocking. Kind of offensive. Funny. Disturbing that Peter sounded so serious and was watching his face so intently. "Peter, I have to live here. And admittedly, I can move and I'm always ready to, but I'd rather not."

Peter cocked his head. "Why would you have to move? Because people know you're having sex up here? Do they think you're a monk or something?"

"No, Peter!" Sylar shook his head, exasperated, trying to disengage himself from Peter's arms around his neck, but Peter didn't cooperate. "Are you… normal? What the hell, Peter? The vid-phone thing was bad enough, but the kind of freak that would-" He didn't get to finish his comment. His neck snapped and wrenched and his last startled thought was surprisingly unsurprised, almost bland: _I wonder if I can die from having my head torn off?_

Then it was dark and he woke up with the taste of blood in his mouth - a gelatinous blob of the stuff that made him aware that he'd been "dead" a lot longer than the usual second or two that passed before regeneration restored him. He coughed and gagged and spat it out. The rest of his body felt cool and stiff and was only slowly coming back to life. He blinked the grittiness out of his eyes, saw he was in the hall now instead of the bathroom, and started to lift himself from the floor.

He froze though. Peter was sitting a few feet away, cross-legged, with a take-out container in his lap, one next to him and two glasses of wine beside him. Sylar moved nothing other than his eyes, rolling them up in his head to see. Without Peter speaking or even looking at him, the other take-out box scooted across the floor to Sylar, followed a moment later by one of the glasses. Sylar swallowed and wet his lips, then coughed again as his lungs expressed their recently-acquired unfamiliarity with breathing.

He shifted and sat up, then scooted to the opposite wall behind him and pulled his food the rest of the way over. He opened the box: meatloaf, green beans and rice pilaf. He swallowed a few times. He'd lost his appetite. He looked up from under his brows at Peter, who was eating small bites, one at a time, steadily. Almost mechanically.

Sylar had no idea what to say or do. Apologize - but for what? Thank him for the food? Act normal? Demand an apology? Be afraid? Or be angry?

"Peter?"

"Sylar." Peter wasn't looking at him - just studying the middle distance before him, eyes looking a little out of focus.

Sylar swallowed again. He fiddled with the take-out box, opening and closing it, opening and closing it. "What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it. You're kind of okay. I kind of like you. That's why I'm still here. Would you let me feed you?"

"What?" It seemed like a bizarre question and it came after the other statements without much change in inflection, like there was nothing unusual to it at all. "Uh… yes. I guess." All he could think was that Peter was proposing a reversal of their roles. No, not proposing - reversing. Peter put his food aside and walked on hands and knees over to Sylar's side, taking the box out of his hands and opening it. The plastic ware was taped to the top of the box along with a napkin in a plastic sleeve. He ignored them, pinching off a piece of meatloaf and raising it to Sylar's mouth.

Sylar took it from his fingers carefully, not sure how he was supposed to do this. Was he supposed to act all begging and solicitous like Peter had? The enthusiasm wasn't there so he just ate it as matter-of-factly as he could. Peter didn't draw back his hand immediately. There was ketchup sauce on his fingers. Sylar leaned forward and licked them tentatively. Peter turned his hand to make it a little easier and Sylar cleaned the sauce from them.

He looked at Peter to gauge if he was doing right, but Peter still wasn't looking at him. He just picked up a green bean and offered it. So Sylar ate in silence, feeling a bit silly, until finally Peter took a deep breath, blinked and set aside the food. He leaned forward, head down and put his arms around Sylar, scooting in. He didn't quite hug him. It was more like he was asking very determinedly for a hug, or miming one around Sylar's body, but only inadvertently touching him. Sylar drew back a little, not sure what was going on.

Peter shrank from him at that withdrawal and bent at the waist. He drew away slowly and curled on his side, turning to face away, all in silence.

Sylar stared at his weird behavior. He still had no idea of what to say or do, but he had a distant urge, an instinct probably, that Peter was showing he was hurt and needing to be comforted. It made no sense at all. Peter had been the one to lash out for whatever reason, after all. Sylar sighed and looked around. He could see an empty grocery sack on the floor of the kitchen. Obviously, things had arrived and even been put up. Peter was still naked, but he no doubt could have appeared as anyone he wanted to the staff, clothed or not.

He looked back at Peter, who was still curled in on himself and perfectly quiet. Sylar sighed again, still feeling unsure of what he was supposed to be doing. Finally he decided to follow that vague instinct and he reached out to put his hand on Peter's back. Peter flinched and did nothing else. Sylar rubbed him and said haltingly, "Come… come here?"

Peter turned, still wordless, and crawled into Sylar's lap, hugging him like a baby monkey might its mother, clutching Sylar's sides. He was awful big for it, so after a moment he ended up kneeling, legs straddling Sylar's, which were together, and arms folding in front of himself, head down, as he pressed against Sylar's chest.

A few moments passed in silence until Peter finally shifted and relaxed just a little. Sylar looked at his food, set off to the side. He called it to himself and tore off another bit of meatloaf. He offered it to Peter, who took it solemnly then sucked on his fingers more than was really necessary. He fed him a little more before Peter sat up and did the same in return, offering Sylar the last piece. He took it and watched Peter close the container. Neither of them had eaten anything of it the other did not feed them.

"What are we doing here?" Sylar asked, still confused.

"We're making up," Peter said, folding himself on Sylar's chest again.

Sylar sighed and put his arms around him. "I… Peter… I don't even know what I _did_."

He felt Peter tense and then relax, take several deep breaths, and then he said, "Don't call me a freak. I know I'm not normal. I'm sorry. I wish I was. I really… really wish I was."

Sylar snorted. "I'm told there's a shot that can give you that. Strip you of all your powers."

Peter shook his head. "That wouldn't help."

"Well… okay." He stroked Peter's back. "What _would_ help?"

"We've got to stop Nathan. We've got to kill him."

Sylar didn't say anything right away. Nathan had been a pain in the ass all right, but honestly he'd thought more along the lines of forcing Nathan to his will than outright killing him. The man was the president, after all. Third term and nearing fourth, admittedly, but no one else had been able to wield the power of those with abilities. The second election had been marred by deaths and disasters, but most people believed Nathan had won it fairly.

The last one had been completely invalidated - two candidates were shown to have abilities (which stripped them of the rights of citizens, such as voting or running for office) and another had been propped up by a cadre of specials. After the ballots were finally cast, the tallying system was discovered to be corrupted and attempts to form a physical assembly of the electoral college for a hand vote failed repeatedly.

Theoretically, legally, they should have another election, but even the Supreme Court had agreed it should be put on hold until measures could be taken to ensure such an election would be valid. While the more optimistic of the citizenry imagined these measures would be implemented soon, most didn't much care, being swept along by the cultural revolution that was swamping not only the US, but the world.

It had been the loss of the southern California coast that had really done it for everyone. One man with an ability had formed a cult of personality around himself, then become pissed about being jilted by some poor woman he'd been stalking. So he'd activated the San Andreas fault, split off a sizeable chunk of the continent and caused worldwide tsunamis, volcanic upwellings and tremors everywhere else. His single act of pique had killed over a million people.

Samuel Sullivan. He'd been Peter's first great foe. Sylar patted Peter's back, thinking of the power Peter had even now, to break the world - Samuel's power. And what power he must have when he stood surrounded by Nathan's goon squad. It was double the size of Samuel's cult, after all… a frightening thought, even to Sylar.

The incident with Samuel was one of many that had come to the public eye in mostly unvarnished infamy, told true and simple. Sylar was sort of sorry they hadn't needed to lie. All they'd needed to do was tell the truth about those with abilities and everyone, even many of those _**with**_ abilities, had agreed they had to be controlled.

The injection that stripped abilities was not, however, disclosed. Instead, they came up with all these other elaborate protocols that amounted to slavery and within a few years, as the program was rapidly expanded to include criminals and the homeless and illegal immigrants and various other classes of undesirables, the public began calling it exactly what it was.

And so Nathan was still in office and the world was changing with frightening speed. Sylar hadn't thought, didn't think, that eliminating Nathan would cure the problem. Instead, since Nathan seemed to have such a good grip on things, he'd thought just to enslave him in turn and leave it at that. Ruling the world meant you had to turn the administration of large parts of it over to other people. Nathan seemed like an able enough flunky. All the man could do was fly, after all. It was a ridiculous, limited ability.

Sylar shrugged. He could always find another flunky. "Yeah, okay. We can kill him. Do you want to do that right now, or after lunch?"


	4. Getting Over the Fear

Peter looked at Sylar and his face was graced by a small smile, making Sylar realize he hadn't seen a smile on him since he'd come back to life. Peter had become so serious. Was this what he was like underneath? Sylar reached up on impulse and took Peter's chin, moving his head one way and then the other, studying him. Intuitive aptitude spurred along the metaphorical clockwork gears in his head. Sylar's eyes narrowed.

Peter tugged his chin out of Sylar's hand and then kissed a folded knuckle to soften the gesture of pulling away. "You're so innocent. It isn't something we can just go _do_." His voice was serious and low.

Sylar looked between his eyes, realizing this was a very different creature than he'd thought he'd been working with for the last few days. It wasn't a bad thing - it was just different and intriguing. Peter was deeper than he'd suspected. He was so absorbed by this revelation that he almost missed that he'd been insulted. But only almost. "Innocent?" He laughed uncertainly, still wary that he might do something unintentional and get killed again - or worse, Peter might leave.

"Yeah. Innocent. I like that." Peter leaned forward and kissed him softly. After a moment of trying to make sense of him and failing, Sylar returned it. He brought his hands up and stroked lightly along Peter's sides, making him shiver. When they parted, Peter stroked his cheek gently, looking thoughtful. "You're not going to have any more luck ruling the world than you did ruling me. You should know that."

Sylar snorted and asserted, "I haven't had any trouble ruling you. I _own_ you, pet." He knew it was a joke, but he tried to sound serious.

Peter chuckled. "No, you don't. You never even _bought_ me!" He grinned. He poked Sylar in the shoulder. "You stole me. Thief!"

Sylar pulled Peter to him and hugged him warmly. Peter apparently wasn't quite in the mood for cuddling, because he seized Sylar's shirt and pulled them to the side, wrestling. Apparently he also wasn't in the mood to wrestle in the hallway because suddenly they were on the bed. It killed the moment as Sylar tensed and jerked, looking around to see where they were now. Peter held perfectly still and let him look. Sylar relaxed after getting oriented and turned back to nuzzle Peter's shoulder. "Please don't do that without warning me, pet."

"Sorry. I wasn't thinking. The tile was cold on my back."

"Maybe if you wore some clothes you wouldn't have that problem," Sylar observed. It still seemed weird to him that Peter was nude. Previously Sylar had kept him that way as an expression of his control over him. For Peter not to have rectified the situation stuck in his brain as a logic error.

"Do you want me to wear clothes?" Peter gave his body an undulation that allowed him to rub himself against Sylar without moving much.

Sylar looked down him and ran a hand along Peter's side. He didn't say anything, mostly because he didn't know what he wanted. Peter reestablished his grip on Sylar's shirt and rolled them from their sides and over onto his back, putting Sylar on top. Peter's legs parted and then wrapped around him, trapping him.

Sylar pushed himself up on his arms, looking around at the situation. He looked unsure. Peter lay still and let him get comfortable with the idea. Sylar made a small roll of his hips, a pelvic thrust. Peter nodded and made an answering motion, wordlessly expressing what he wanted. Sylar nodded too and reached down to unfasten his pants. He smiled for a moment as he did it.

"What?" Peter asked, plucking at his shirttail.

"I seem to be dropping my trousers an awful lot today."

Peter grinned. "Maybe if you didn't wear so many clothes you wouldn't have that problem."

Sylar looked up at him and started to say something sharp, then paused. Instead he echoed Peter's question from earlier, asking, "Do you want me to go without clothes?"

Peter stretched under him, putting his arms up and unlocking his legs from around Sylar. It helped him get his pants all the way off. "Yeah, for right now. It's a status symbol for you, isn't it?"

Sylar hesitated, then tossed the pants off the bed and started working on his shirt. "You sure do have a way of seeing the heart of things."

"Hm," was all Peter said in reply. He gave a small smile while letting his fingertips play with the skin of Sylar's stomach and chest as it was exposed. He seemed especially taken with his chest hair.

Sylar let his shirt follow his pants and was naked except for his socks. He didn't bother to take them off, leaning back down over Peter and rocking together with him for a moment. He wasn't hard. Peter was getting there, but that was it. Sylar asked, "Are we really going to do this?"

Peter reached up and pulled him the rest of the way down, so they were touching at the torso and not only at the groin. "Yes, we are," he whispered, running his hands up and down Sylar's back, fingernails curled so they bit slightly.

"Mm," Sylar said appreciatively. More articulately he said, "Then I think…" He took a deep breath and forged on, offering himself in a way that he'd done for no other, "I should be the bottom, because I'm not really… up for this."

"Why?"

Sylar shrugged one shoulder. If pressed, he would have said he'd already come twice in the last hour so obviously his body was running a little behind, but regeneration should have made that a moot point. If pressed harder, he might have admitted that he was still put off by being killed for poor word choice and not just killed briefly, but kept dead for over half an hour. Peter didn't bother pressing. He knew what was going on. "You're afraid of me." It wasn't even a question.

Sylar started to pull back so he could look at him, but Peter didn't let him and he didn't force it. After a long, pregnant pause he relaxed into Peter's arms, but made no reply. What reply _could_ he make? He'd sought Peter out because he was dangerous. He just hadn't expected things to go as they had. Or for Peter to be as dangerous to him as he clearly was. Peter hadn't responded to the whole situation like a normal person should. He hadn't broken - he'd just changed tactics, as if these sorts of battles of his free will and over his body were normal for him. 'Normal' - there was that word again. Sylar pondered it.

Peter said quietly, "Sylar, you need to know: you have something I want."

He was beginning to feel a bit trapped by Peter's arms. It wasn't like he couldn't make a stronger attempt to get away, but Sylar was reluctant to bring powers into this. Over the years, he'd figured out they dehumanized things. Considering that, he wondered what having so many of them had done to Peter and if that was what was wrong with him. Because there was definitely something wrong there… or at least something very different. He'd seen it flashing under that exterior of seduction and cheerfulness. "What would that be?"

"You want me to want you. The others… they don't give a fuck if I want them. They're just… there. They want to use me, or maybe they just want me to do something for them. I know you have your plans for me and you've had them all along, but there's something else there now. I tasted it. I want that. It's why I'm still here. You want me. You want _me_."

Peter let him go, even putting his legs down and Sylar raised himself over him. He looked at Peter for a very long time. One of the many things he'd wanted was power and influence over Peter. Apparently… he had them. He really didn't understand why. He leaned down and tilted his head. Peter lifted to meet him and they shared a short, sweet kiss. The corner of Sylar's mouth quirked up. "You 'kind of like' me?"

Peter smiled warmly and somehow 'kind of like' seemed like a whole lot. "Yeah. I do."

"Hm." Sylar felt his cock twitch at that. It was a reaction at least and the first stirring he'd felt. "So… how far does this go?" At Peter's look he added, "How much… do you want this?"

Peter's expression changed again, not as fast or as dramatically as before, but it became more wanton and submissive and pleading. His words matched it. "Oh, master. Master. Please, master. You don't know how much I want to make up for the other day when I wouldn't let you fuck me. I've been a bad slave and you've been such a good, good master. You haven't punished me for that. You got me a doctor and you let me sleep in your bed and you've gotten me food and you've even held me." Peter reached up and stroked Sylar's face. "You do so much for me. Let me do this for you?"

Sylar, for his part, was trying to decide if the role play was creepy or appealing. Peter looked so sincere… and it occurred to him that if Peter didn't want this, then he had dozens of ways to avoid it. Clearly he wanted it. But since when had consent really mattered to Sylar? Well… probably since he started fucking someone who could kill him with a thought. Yeah, that was probably it. But it did sort of seem like he'd started caring about it a little _before_ Peter had his abilities back.

While he was thinking about this, Peter twisted his body and leaned up to lick at Sylar's nipple, making his cock twitch again. Sylar moved up to make the position a little easier and Peter used one hand to molest the nipple his mouth was neglecting.

"Ohhh," Sylar said, taking deep breaths and letting his eyes slide half closed. He suspected he was thinking about things too much and so he just stopped. Peter's hand drifted lower, stirring the hairs under his belly button and following them down. He ran his fingers through them, annoyingly avoiding his penis, tugging at a few tufts of pubic hair. Sylar was about to object, but Peter sucked harder at his chest, alternately pulling his teeth across it and licking rapidly. He groaned instead.

Peter switched sides and a different hand went down to Sylar's crotch, again bypassing his member, which was swollen and heavy between them now. Instead he reached past for his balls. Sylar tensed as Peter's fingers closed around them. Peter let go of them and just brushed the scrotum with his fingertips, feeling how the testicles hung and dangled and yet were still drawn close to the man's body. The delicate skin wrinkled in an involuntary retraction.

Peter grunted and gave each of Sylar's thighs a single slow stroke before finally moving his hand to his cock. It was getting harder. Peter wrapped his finger and thumb around it as if assessing the size. He leaned away from Sylar's chest, propped up on one elbow and looked down his body at him. Sylar panted a little and let his hips move with the slow, sure pulls Peter gave him. Peter whispered, "You are the most important thing in my world."

Sylar grinned. How was it that Peter could take comments made in arrogance or anger and make them into endearments? His cock surged against Peter's hand and one side of Peter's mouth turned up in a crooked smile. "I'm your little Peter pet. Shall I suck you and make you hard, master?"

Sylar didn't argue that he was already hard enough. He rocked back on his knees and Peter went to his hands and knees before him, head turned. He licked the outside of the shaft first and Sylar put his hand on his back for balance. His other hand he fisted into Peter's hair. At a sudden urge, he jerked that head up and pulled Peter up to him. Peter made a small cry and whimpered in pain, but his mouth opened slackly and accepted Sylar's probing tongue. Sylar pressed his face to him firmly, pushing Peter down a little and Peter yielded before him. One of Peter's hands snuck up to tweak a nipple. Having demonstrated his dominance, Sylar shoved him back down.

"Now suck me."

"Yes, master." Peter set to the task with his usual skill, a hot, wet sleeve of mouth consuming Sylar's organ, teasing it with strokes of his tongue, pressure and suction of his lips. Sylar turned Peter's head and thrust all the way into him, intentionally making him gag and holding him there, watching as Peter's back tensed and the muscles bunched as he tried to obey and stay. Sylar felt his throat spasming around the head of his cock and he finally fell back, laughing.

Peter hung his head, breathing rapidly and getting control again. Sylar didn't wait. He shoved Peter over and grabbed his shoulder to jerk him around to the position it wanted. It was basically missionary. He spat on one hand and used the other to catch Peter's leg under the knee and push it back, exposing him. He slathered the saliva onto his anus and shifted. He slid two fingers into Peter slowly, watching his face.

Peter's eyelids fluttered, his cock twitched at full hardness and he shuddered. Sylar wondered if he should be insulted that Peter was probably thinking of Nathan right now. Of course, he didn't have to copy Peter's brother, but he did, slowly, rhythmically, pumping his fingers in and out, watching as Peter's mouth fell open and his eyes rolled back and his fingers twitched.

He kept at it, wondering if Peter would come from this alone, from two fingers moving in and out of him so steadily, a simple thing. He wondered what it would have felt like to have no memories, but to still feel that aroused at this motion, when he'd had Peter bend over in that grimy little cubicle and show his ass. It had been his first submission to him and it had been total. He breathed harder, wanting in Peter, but he wasn't done here yet. He kept his pace slow and easy, remembering how Peter's voice had cracked just a little - unsure of himself for the first time in their interaction.

"Ah," Peter said in a small voice, his eyes tightening in a grimace, his throat tightening so he could hardly breathe - the mechanism for that delightful squeak he'd made in the bathroom when he came earlier. Peter made a similar sound now. His cock throbbed and semen spurted up his chest. His body shook, his ass spasming around Sylar's fingers. He pulled them out and immediately replaced them with himself, pushing in hard. This time he didn't let Peter do whatever it was he'd done in the bathroom, so at least there was resistance to press past. He liked that. He also liked the startled, helpless expression on Peter's face as he tried to get his bearings after the orgasm, feeling himself filled so soon.

Peter looked up at Sylar and moaned, pulling his knees back cooperatively, but kind of weakly, to allow him to ram into him deeper. He made small helpless noises that made Sylar rock hard, made him snap his hips into his thrusts and go as deep as he could into Peter's still clenching hole. Sylar pounded into him. This was what he'd wanted to do earlier - he'd wanted to have Peter where he could see him, where he could see every twitch and flinch and jerk Peter made as he fucked him and Sylar thrust into him harder and faster, trying to provoke those reactions with every stroke. Peter was incredibly responsive, quivering like his body was a cluster of raw nerves, letting himself be taken.

Sylar obliged. He could tell when Peter had finally regained his bearings because he began working the muscles of his ass in concert with Sylar's thrusts, his rear end almost sucking at him as he tried to draw back each time, opening before him as he came forward. He was going to come soon and this delicious tension to push and pull against was doing it. He held the undersides of Peter's knees in his hands, pressing himself forward on them while his butt flexed to drive himself into Peter's body repeatedly. He felt it coming and began to make choked noises.

"Come on, baby. Come on," Peter urged, crooning to him. It seemed odd that he would abandon the master/slave role and urge him on like that, but Sylar felt a sudden wash of 'safe' at the realization Peter wasn't playing a role. He was just there, just with him in this moment of ecstasy, like a partner and an equal.

"Come on," Peter called to him, "Come for me, baby, sweetie, please, for me. Come in me. I want you. Oh… Oh… Oh, you are! There it is. I got you!" Peter's ass tightened almost painfully around Sylar's cock as he jerked roughly against him and finally slumped forward, slowly disentangling himself from Peter's legs and body so he could lie over him.

Peter petted his hair and crooned, "Oh, was that so hard? I'm not so big, bad and scary now, am I? You've fucked me. You still like me? Am I a good slave? Because you're a good master. Oh boy, are you ever. You're the best I've ever had." He kissed Sylar on the forehead, who for now had no response other than to lie there limply and enjoy the afterglow. Peter said a number of other silly things, not waiting for answers to his questions, just rambling on to the next.

Eventually Sylar rolled off of him. He started to get up, but Peter pulled him back. "Nope. Cuddle time's not over yet. Come here, you." He pulled Sylar back and they lay side to side, facing one another. After a moment of being regarded by those too intent eyes, Sylar let his gaze drop. His lids were heavy anyway. Peter kept petting his hair and saying soothing sweet nothings in a sing-song voice. It was incredibly easy to lose himself in the meaningless words and somnolent tones. He relaxed. He felt Peter's voice pulling him under and he let it happen. He drifted off to sleep.


	5. Waking Up Alone

**A/N: Huh. No sex in this chapter. How the heck did that happen? Guess the guys just needed a breather here. And I know I skimp a bit on the description of what Nathan has as defenses, but it's not the point of the story. **

**Someone asked what powers Peter has here, and the short answer would be, "all of them." He is unquestionably the most individually powerful person on the planet. For number of abilities, Sylar comes in second. As for which powers Sylar has, the short answer is "half of them."**

It had been a stressful day, really. Even for Sylar. He felt like he'd deserved the nap; earned it. He reached out, not even consciously aware of what he was reaching for. The intellectual side of his brain caught up with the instinctual side a moment later and realized he was looking for Peter, who wasn't in bed with him anymore. It struck him as weird to be reaching for him when he'd slept with him only twice now. Well, three times, if you counted the nap. But had Peter napped at all?

The bed was cold everywhere that Sylar wasn't lying. He ran his fingers over the sheets using clairsentience, but they were a welter of strong impressions, sweat and passion. If he'd worked at it, he could have dug out the right memory, but he didn't bother. Peter was probably just out in the kitchen eating again. He started to walk out, then paused next to his clothes. He hesitated, but the apartment was silent. He pulled on his pants and went out.

A few moments later he was standing on the balcony, feeling a sharp breeze across his bare chest, looking across the city. He was alone. He leaned on the rail and tried to sort out how he felt about that. He was pretty sure he felt something really strongly about it, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

He'd been asleep for a little more than an hour. Peter could have left as soon as he fell asleep. He might have even done something to him to _make_ him go to sleep, concealed in the sing-song of his words. It wasn't like Sylar had exactly had his defenses up. He sighed, his hands tightening around the railing he was leaning on. The iron made a sound of protest, a metallic shriek.

Peter's voice sounded behind him. "Tense about something?"

"Peter!" He spun to see Peter standing there naked. He felt an urge to go over to him and hug him, but he suppressed it. His tone changed from surprised and pleased that he was back to glacial that he had left in the first place. "Where have you been?"

Peter studied him for a moment, as if gauging what he could get away with. He shrugged and slumped and walked over to sit on the wicker framed seat they'd shared just the night before. "I went to spy on Nathan and see what his current defenses are."

It wasn't a lie. Sylar still felt pretty suspicious. Why would he need to sneak off to do that? Peter leaned back and looked up at the sky, giving the other man time to process without eyes on him. After over a minute, Sylar turned and looked out at the city again, leaning on the railing. Peter said, "I didn't think you'd wake up so fast."

"Did you put me to sleep?"

Peter cajoled, "Sylar, baby-"

Sylar whipped around, bringing all of his telekinesis to bear at once, locking Peter up as effectively as Peter had done it to him. He waited a beat. Peter blinked at him once. It was the only voluntary movement Sylar had left him. He could have teleported out, Sylar considered. That was a purely mental exercise. All he had to do was pop in a few feet away to break the hold and then before Sylar could shift his attention, he could turn the tables.

But since he hadn't, maybe he had something worthwhile to say. At least, he had something to say that Peter thought might ameliorate this awkward situation and Sylar wasn't quite ready to toss things to the wind. He walked forward, grabbed one of the two separate chairs that went with the couch-like seat Peter was on. He pulled the chair over in front of Peter and sat down.

On impulse, he reached out and touched Peter's knee, then let his hand slide up the inside of his thigh in a familiar fashion. Had Peter not had his abilities, it would have been a threat of what he could do to him once he had him locked up like this. The corner of Sylar's mouth quirked up as he tickled the delicate skin of his inner thigh.

The corners of Peter's eyes crinkled in response. Somehow, that tiny reaction defused it and the tension drained out of him. Sylar again marveled that Peter could do that with the smallest of gestures. He released the hold, but Peter scarcely moved. He breathed - that was all. Sylar pulled his hand back to the man's knee and patted it. "You know the drill," Sylar said. "Yes or no. Sir or master. Did you put me to sleep?"

Peter groaned at the renewal of limits on his speech, but he complied. He tilted his head back to look at the sky again. "Yes, sir."

"Why?"

Peter's lips twitched and he tilted back to look at Sylar. He seemed to stumble for a moment. "Master?"

Sylar rolled his eyes. "Fine. Yes, you can use other words to answer my questions. Don't get mouthy though."

Peter raised his brows at that additional condition. "I wanted you out of the way while I went to talk to him."

"You _talked_ to him? _**Nathan?**_" Why did he feel so betrayed? Well, yeah, there were a lot of reasons why he'd feel betrayed, but the feeling seemed to run much more viscerally than he would have expected.

"Yes, sir."

He caught himself from the desire to pace or flail his arms around or fling Peter off the rooftop or any of a half dozen other stupid impulses. "_Why?_" His voice was laden with emotion.

If Peter noticed (and how could he not?), he gave no indication of it. "Because there's only one way we can do this and that's to get close to him."

Sylar looked around, flustered, "Well, then why didn't you kill him then? Just now, since you went and talked to him?"

"I talked to him on the phone." Sylar felt immediately relieved and less threatened to hear that. Peter went on, speaking low and quiet to make Sylar pay attention to him if he wanted to hear, which he did. "And anyway, he doesn't trust me yet. _I couldn't_. Let me tell you what he has as protection and maybe you'll understand."

It was a ridiculous assertion - that Peter couldn't kill a man who could do nothing other than fly - but he respected Peter's assessment and listened closely as to the reason. He listened for the better part of an hour before he started arguing and trying to poke holes in Nathan's fortifications.

"I still don't see why we don't just teleport in and cut his throat," Sylar complained, trailing along behind Peter as he went to the kitchen and got out the fruit tray and yogurt for a snack.

"I told you. Power negation. He's never without it. Overlapping sources."

"Then just use a gun."

"Won't hit. Bullets wouldn't make it. I addressed that too."

"Poison gas?"

"Yeah, listen, Sylar, I've already explained all this. Even if you do kill him, he's just coming right back. If you don't kill him outright, he'll be healed. If you do, he'll be resurrected. There are reasons why no one has killed him and had it stick in the last ten years!"

"They just haven't _tried_."

Peter looked at him disbelievingly. "I… what? What the hell? Have you been listening to me at all? He has all these defenses because of all the attempts. I was _there_ for a lot of them, stopping them. He has people whose _sole job_ is to monitor the probability of betrayal or ambush or assassination attempt at any given time and as soon as they twitch, Trevor stops time and checks it out. The only way we're going to get him is to one," he held up a finger to illustrate, "move fast, and two," he held up a second finger, "convince him he doesn't need his defenses so he lets us past them. That's it."

"Why this… change of heart?"

Peter stuck a piece of pineapple into his mouth after dredging it in yogurt. Sylar watched him eat with an uncommon interest. Peter swallowed and said, "What change of heart?"

"When did you turn against Nathan, and why?"

Peter snorted. "The why…" He chuckled darkly. "I don't even need to get into my personal reasons. But when - when they wiped my memories it wiped all the programming. No memories - no commands. All gone. There's no reason why I'd restore _that_ when I was restoring my memories."

Well, that confirmed Sylar's expectations. It was a simple answer. "So when you were leading those resistance cells, that was… staged?"

"Sure."

"Shit."

"Yeah." Peter toyed with his next piece of pineapple, swirling it back and forth in the yogurt, but not raising it to his mouth. "Yeah. Lotta people out there hate me. A lot more would if they could even remember who I was." He shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter. It's not like they do."

"Do you _have_ anyone?" The question was out of his mouth before he even thought about it and at Peter's look, he had the impression it was oddly too personal. Oddly, because they'd shared just about everything physical fairly recently. But… that didn't really matter. The physical was only an expression of the complicated mental and emotional dance they'd gotten involved in.

It had occurred to Sylar on the heels of Peter's comment about people who might hate him that it was possible there were people out there who might love him. And perhaps that he loved back. And if he were to be in this dance with Peter and feel that wrench when he realized he was alone, or that he'd gone to talk to Nathan, then maybe he needed to know who was waiting for the next dance.

Peter was still standing there, not quite woodenly, but like he was at a loss, his expression blank, which seemed like the best possible reaction, in Sylar's opinion. Sylar took a step forward and took the piece of pineapple away from him, forgotten in his grip. He lifted it to Peter's lips and the darker haired man ate it, some life coming back to his eyes. Peter swallowed and let his eyes fall into Sylar's. He said, "I think so."

That was also a good answer. Sylar leaned in and kissed him, enjoying the tropical flavor. "That's nice," he said when they parted. He meant the taste.

"Yeah, I think so too," Peter said, obviously meaning something else, something that pleased Sylar.

Sylar's eyes roamed over his face. "You're not lying to me?" It was a silly question, since they could both detect those, but he felt a need to ask anyway.

"I haven't lied to you." Peter swallowed and looked away, then back, meeting Sylar's eyes. "But you're going to have to trust me. Really, _**really**_, trust me. I know I haven't earned that trust. And for that I'm sorry, but we won't have the time… Like I told you, between the probability readers and the precognitives, we have to move fast. Just… remember that I've asked you - asked you to trust me, when it all comes down to it."

Sylar's brows drew together. It was a weird, heavy statement and he decided not to address it. Instead, he raised a piece of cantaloupe to his lips and took a small bite. He leaned forward to offer the rest to Peter, who took it, like a kiss. Peter swallowed the rest of the piece whole, so as to clear his mouth for Sylar's tongue. When they parted, Sylar said, "We're still going tomorrow, right?"

Peter nodded, but didn't say anything. Lie detection only worked on words, after all, not gestures.


	6. Systems

**A/N: Huh. More lack of sex. Not sure what's going on here. But I forgive Peter-in-my-head because he at least gave me an intriguing insight on the possible pitfalls of time travel.**

They spent the rest of the evening working out their strategy and settling on a plan. Sylar turned out to be a fairly good cook, which surprised Peter for some reason. Peter didn't know a frying pan from a saucepan. He managed heating up corn out of a can. Sylar did the steaks.

As he slid Peter's plate in front of his chair, Sylar said, "Peter… please. Put some clothes on. It…" He trailed off, unable to think of how to say that being naked _all the time_ without being a slave was creeping him out. He felt self-conscious himself without a shirt and on the heels of that thought he went back to his bedroom to get one. When he came out, Peter was dressed in a plain white t-shirt, jeans and sneakers.

_Huh. Where'd he get that stuff?_ "Thank you," Sylar said as he settled into his chair. He looked at his food and took a moment. It almost looked like he was praying, but really, he was just reflecting on things, thinking about how long it had been since he'd sat down for a meal with a guest. He picked up his fork and began to cut his steak. Peter, who had been waiting, watching him, followed suit.

"So," Sylar said, "Did you go visit Nathan in the nude?"

"What if I did? You jealous?"

"Yeah," Sylar said bluntly.

"Oh." It hadn't been the reaction Peter had been expecting. "Um… no, not really. I was wearing what I am now."

Sylar's brows drew together and he looked over Peter's clothes again. "Are you _really_ wearing anything?"

"No," Peter answered, also blunt.

"Oh." Illusion then. Sylar considered what to do about this and decided that 'nothing' was a pretty good answer.

They ate slowly, Peter engaging Sylar to tell him the differences between top sirloin and ribeye and why he had ordered one as opposed to the other, what it meant for corn to be 'niblet' and a variety of other small questions. Sylar had gone through a phase a few years back of enrolling in classes in the community, trying to meet people. It hadn't really worked out - he'd formed some casual acquaintances, but that was it - but he had learned a lot of small skills. The four part cooking class he'd taken had been one of the few that he still used. His perfect memory retained the rest, but he rarely had reason to use them. Peter excused himself after a while to go refill his drink.

Sylar finished off his steak, realizing Peter had been rather a while in the kitchen. More than half the man's food remained untouched. He took his last bite and walked over to the doorway, leaning on the frame, arms crossed. Peter was stirring something rapidly, facing away. He watched how the motions jiggled his body for a while, sucking at his teeth. Finally Peter glanced back and said, "Like what you see?"

"Yeah. What are you beating off over there?" Sylar was pretty sure he knew, but he couldn't pass up the line.

Peter snorted. "Whipped cream. Whip it good."

Sylar laughed at that. "Devo."

Peter nodded, a boyish cast coming to his features and he flashed that radiant smile that made Sylar's chest tighten. "Yeah. Those were the days." His eyes looked distant for a moment and very happy.

"You didn't finish your steak. Moving on to dessert so fast?"

Peter shrugged, his good mood evaporating. "Stomach's shrunk. Guess that's what happens when you don't eat much of anything for a week."

Sylar frowned. "Don't exaggerate. I didn't starve you for a _week_. You haven't even been here that long."

Peter paused in his work. "Sylar, if it was just you, you'd be dead. But it's not. It's the whole system. Why would they feed slaves any more than the bare minimum to keep them alive? You heard what the doctor said. It's not a secret - what they do to people."

Sylar sighed. He really didn't care what happened to slaves, but obviously Peter did. So he supposed that meant _he_ needed to care about them. Or at least not object while Peter stood around and cared about them. He wasn't very happy about that 'you'd be dead' part either, but he didn't argue.

Peter tasted his product, folded in some sugar, and went back to using the whisk. "You remember when you first got your ability and tried to kill yourself because you didn't want to be a killer?"

"How do you know about that?" Sylar snapped, walking closer to lean against the counter an arm's length away from him. He didn't like to think about that time. He'd been weak. He hadn't been weak in a long time.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Assuming I didn't download your whole life this morning, which I did, then there's always the case file Nathan's security has on you."

"They have a file on me?"

"Yep. You're powerful enough to be a threat. They have a file on you."

"Then why haven't they acted? Gotten rid of me?"

Peter gave a small smile. "You've never attacked them. You've never showed up on any of the probability calculations as even possibly attacking them. Never showed up in the precognition as being expected to attack them. I mean, sure, you're there as an outside chance, but Nathan might choke to death on a pretzel too. Doesn't mean he stops eating pretzels. If he killed everyone who _might_ kill him, no one would be alive."

"Huh." They were right. He'd never seriously considered killing Nathan Petrelli, not even when he'd started seeking after Peter. There just wasn't a need. Until Peter broached the subject just a few hours ago, killing Nathan had been like killing someone at random. Even though Sylar had lost track of his kills after eighty-three (he figured he was around one-fifty now), he never killed randomly.

Gabriel reached out and put his finger in the whipped cream, tasting a small dollop. "Mm," he said appreciatively. "Not bad."

Peter got more on his finger and offered it to him, so he ate that as well, sucking at the finger. Peter moved it in and out of his mouth as he sucked, in a slow, steady motion. Sylar blinked and jerked his head aside when he realized what that reminded him of, thoughts of Nathan and finger-fucking Peter on his mind. Peter gave him an odd look, but turned to the counter without exploring it.

"Why is it you know how to make whipped cream, but can't cook a steak?" Sylar asked, his tone a little more acerbic than it needed to be.

Peter chuckled. "I know how to do the important stuff." Sylar snorted at that. Peter went on, "But really, when you first found out about your ability, you might not have become a killer. At least, not the way you did – not so fast, not so much, not so out of control. But there was a group in place, a system at work, a bunch of people getting together and acting with a common purpose and that purpose included goading you into killing, so they could see how that worked and what you needed. Once they knew that, they didn't need you anymore – Nathan had me anyway and was…"

Peter's voice flagged. "He was afraid he couldn't keep two under control. One he could do. And… he had a long time to… know me."

Peter rubbed his forehead suddenly. Sylar frowned at him. Peter shoved the whipped cream to the side and got out a bowl roughly. He pulled over the ice cream that had been sitting out while he prepared the topping and scooped out a several rounds of it, dropping them in more forcefully than necessary.

"Peter?" Sylar asked. Peter just seemed to have run out of words and was now carrying out his tasks silently, tensely.

Peter looked at him like he didn't even know who he was. Sylar stepped over to him and kissed him gently but firmly. Peter broke the kiss immediately and hugged him. His chest heaved a few times and then he calmed. "What was I even saying?" he asked, still embracing.

"I don't know that we need to talk about that. It's not important now."

Peter pushed away from him and returned to the ice cream. He stared at it a moment, then put the container back in the freezer. "No. We do. You need to understand. It's a system – not an individual. An individual can start a system and they can be the lynchpin for a system, but the problem _**is**_ the system. An individual like you, if you work alone like you do, you don't really have a big impact. It's when you start working with other people, like the Company, or Samuel Sullivan, or like Nathan - that's when you really start changing things. The whole world has changed, Sylar. And not for the better. We have to stop this." He got out the chocolate syrup and drizzled it liberally over the ice cream. "Stop the president; stop the world."

Sylar's brows knit. "Wasn't that… didn't that Japanese guy say something like that a lot?"

"Yeah. Save the cheerleader; save the world."

"Huh. He had a really cool power. What ever happened to him?"

"Dunno. I've thought about that a lot. An awful lot." Peter put a ridiculous amount of whipped cream on top of the ice cream and drizzled it too with syrup. "If he were still around, none of this would have happened. This is a miserable timeline. Hiro wouldn't allow this."

Sylar interjected sourly, "This world doesn't have heroes."

Peter snorted and smiled, his humor temporarily restored. "Yeah. I've noticed. Remember when you wanted to be the hero, back at Kirby Plaza?"

Sylar huffed and said nothing, crossing his arms tightly across his chest.

Peter's gaze lingered on that body language, correctly reading that Sylar wouldn't have minded being cast as the good guy. He smiled softly to himself and turned back to his food prep, talking. "So anyway, if that Japanese guy _were_ around, he'd have gone back in time and stopped it – so by default, if it _is_ happening, then whatever attempt he made to stop it failed, as far as we're concerned.

"Sometimes I wonder if he went back in time and changed things, and this is the timeline he left behind. He's out there somewhen, living in a better timeline, thinking he averted all of this, and instead it's just… this world went on without him." He looked sideways at Sylar. "That's why I won't use time travel to solve this. I can't risk…" He shook his head. "I can't risk leaving this world to its fate."

Peter put away the syrup and the rest of the whipped cream. He took out a single strawberry from the leftovers of the fruit tray. He perched it on top of the irregular mountain of whipped cream. He stabbed two long spoons in it and presented his masterpiece to Sylar.

"One bowl?"

Peter smiled. "Do we really need two?"

Sylar grinned. "No, I guess not."


	7. Sweet Nothings

Sylar scooped out a spoonful and tried it, managing to get more ice cream than syrup and whipped topping. "Mm." He fished out a second spoonful and offered it to Peter, who licked the spoon suggestively enough that Sylar let Peter suck it until it was shiny again. Sylar grinned.

Peter jerked his head to one side and said, "Come on. We're getting in the shower."

"What about the ice cream?"

Peter laughed. "We're taking it with us, dork. And because I don't like to have to interrupt things, go get the lube."

"I sort of got the impression you didn't _need_ lube," Sylar said, going to get it anyway.

Sylar heard the reply perfectly well with enhanced hearing, though Peter mumbled it: "Might need it for what I've got in mind."

He came back to see Peter was nude again. After a beat, Sylar phased out of his clothes, then kicked the resulting pile away from the shower so they wouldn't get wet. He stepped inside. Peter swirled the strawberry around in the whipped cream and turned to Sylar, putting one hand on his chest. He pushed him slowly against the far wall of the shower. The door closed behind him. He pressed himself against the taller man and offered him the fruit. Sylar took a small bite out of it, took it and offered it in return. Peter ate half of what remained, then fed the last to Sylar.

They kissed, hands exploring one another's shoulders and neck and face; the back of the head; if their hair was long enough to work their fingers into it and get a grip; the delicate curves of ears. They parted and just looked at each other for a long moment. Peter gave Sylar a peck on the point of his chin, then fetched the bowl. He scooped a fingerful of whipped cream and chocolate out and fed it to his lover.

Sylar got some out on his own and dabbed it on Peter's nose, evading his mouth purposefully. He smiled at the picture he'd made. Peter crossed his eyes looking at it and Sylar began chortling. He dabbed the rest on Peter's cheeks, swirling them into rough circles. Peter rolled his eyes. "Do I look like a clown yet?"

Sylar nodded, grinning ear to ear. "Come here," he said, drawing Peter to him. He licked it off in careful, short sweeps of his tongue. He kissed his mouth briefly, a teasing touch. Peter raised a brow. He'd show him teasing.

He reached deeper into the bowl and came away with a glob of ice cream. Smiling devilishly, he put it on Sylar's left nipple.

"Oh! Ohhh," Sylar said in appreciation of the odd sensation. Peter smeared it in a tight circle as it melted and ran down his chest. "Oh, nice. No wonder you wanted to be in the shower."

Peter smiled. "Oh, we haven't even begun to get messy." With that, he swept away the last of the ice cream and tweaked the nub. "How's that feel?"

"Little numb. Kind of nice."

"Yeah?" Peter leaned in and pressed his mouth to the nipple, sucking it gently.

"Oh! Ahhh!" Sylar groaned at the warm, wet suction and the delightful juxtaposition of temperatures. He arched his back under Peter's ministrations.

"Ha," Peter said as he leaned away. He pulled out another glob for the other side. When he was done with the cold treatment, he got another, larger, messy handful of dessert and said, "Here. Hold the bowl." Sylar obliged and Peter bent his mouth to his chest. His hand went lower, leaving a trail of melted dairy product until he reached Sylar's half-hard cock. He wrapped it immediately in his hand, squashing the ice cream around it.

"Ow! Sort of. Oh!" Sylar shifted, but Peter didn't let him get away. "Oh wow. That's weird. Really weird." Peter stroked him gently, smearing him thoroughly. Sylar looked down and said, "You're right. That's messy. Looks like I've already come - ten times maybe."

Peter raised himself from Sylar's chest to kiss him, still stroking. He put their groins together, smearing himself as well. They rubbed together, each using a hand. It was a mess - a sticky, sweet, delicious mess.

On impulse, Sylar dropped to his knees. He looked at Peter's groin for a moment, then slid one hand up the back of his thigh to cup a buttock, while the other dipped briefly in the bowl - coming away with nearly all whipped cream this time - and smeared it on Peter's organ. He leaned forward and licked. Peter, in an act of gratuitous slovenliness, wiped his dirty hand through Sylar's hair, grinning.

Peter leaned back, moving his hips a little even though all Sylar was doing was licking him. He got the idea though and wrapped his forefinger and thumb around the shaft, letting Peter fuck into it as he slurped off the dessert. When he was mostly clean - as clean as he was likely to get, anyway - he sucked at the head, keeping his lips curled over his teeth. He felt woefully inadequate next to Peter's expertise on the subject, but Peter didn't seem put off. He was rock hard.

"Stand up and turn around," Peter directed, bending to pick up the bowl Sylar had set aside when he'd knelt to go to church.

Sylar obeyed. Peter dug out a handful of ice cream - they were more than half way through it by now - and spread it irregularly across Sylar's back. He turned and set the bowl on the seat and then was back to Sylar, licking it off. He spooned his body to the other man's, slipping his penis between his legs. He tapped the outer side of Sylar's thigh and said, "Put your legs together around me." Only really the tip was able to get friction (sticky, sloppy friction), but it was enough. Peter's mouth worked relentlessly across Sylar's back, making him arch and move.

Peter wrapped an arm around him to caress his chest, digging in his fingernails when Sylar moved against him. After the first time of that, Sylar moved against him a lot more actively. Peter gave him welts and bit his back. He bucked his hips into him a few more times, then pulled out and dropped down slowly, licking and chewing down his spine, following the melted trails he couldn't get to before. Several of them ran into the cleft of Sylar's ass.

Peter tongued along that seam, spreading him slightly for better access. When his tongue hit the delicate skin of the anus, Sylar suddenly stood straight up. Peter froze, looking up, wondering if he'd trespassed somehow. After a beat, Sylar bent again, then shifted his legs part. He reached back and spread his cheeks on his own. Peter grinned and laughed silently. When he could trust his voice, he said, "Liked that, huh?"

"Yep. Do that more!" Sylar sounded eager.

Peter scooped out ice cream and put it in his mouth, then leaned in, putting one hand on Sylar's leg for stability and running the other between his legs, caressing his balls. Sylar made a small sound of pleasure and panted. Peter put his mouth to him, letting the sweet, half-melted slush run out as it would. He licked him thoroughly. When Sylar's squirming seemed to becoming too much, he leaned away, stroking him slowly.

"You ready?" Peter asked.

"Yes!"

Peter grinned. He threw back his head and looked at the ceiling. In a quiet voice he asked, "Can I top you?"

"Yes!" It was equally enthusiastic.

Peter tilted his head forward. "Really?"

"Yes, really. Why wouldn't you?"

Peter shrugged. "Just… thought… all that dominance stuff… master…"

Sylar snorted. "Fine. You despicable sex slave. I bought you. I want my damn money's worth. Now fuck my ass like nobody's business or it will be the lash for you!"

Peter almost choked. "Alri-… yes, master." He scrambled to his feet and grabbed the lube, spreading it on himself and his fingers. "How ready are you?"

Sylar made an inarticulate noise and rubbed his rear end back into Peter. Peter put himself to him and pushed, but there was no access. Sylar grunted. Peter pulled back and pressed his finger against the opening. He leaned in close against Sylar's back, working the pad of his finger against him. "Do you want this rough?"

"I want you to fuck me," Sylar said.

Peter worked the finger inside. Sylar twitched and shifted in a way that made Peter freeze for a moment and mentally scroll back through his impressions of Sylar's life. It took him a moment, because what he was looking for wasn't there. Sylar looked back. "What? Aren't you supposed to keep moving?"

"Yes," Peter said, and did, but slowly. "You've never done this before." It wasn't a question.

"Fuck you, Petrelli."

"Easy," Peter said, but in opposition to his words, he jammed a second finger into him roughly. Sylar made a forced noise between his teeth and shoved his hips back against Peter's hand like he had something to prove. Peter pistoned his hand into him enough to make Sylar pant and said, "Yeah, that's it. You feel which muscles you need to use?"

"Fuck…" Sylar worked himself back and forth in counterpoint to Peter's fingers, making a concentrated and deliberate effort to prevent Peter from moving in anything similar to a slow, steady pattern.

"Shit on me," Sylar muttered in disbelief at the sensation.

"No, I've never enjoyed that."

"What?" Sylar snapped, having no idea what Peter was talking about.

"Never mind," Peter said, moving himself into position and pulling his fingers out. There wasn't as much resistance as he expected. Sylar had caught onto it much faster than most. He was still tight, deliciously tight. He took Sylar's hips and tugged him back into himself, encouraging Sylar to make the motions while Peter stood relatively still. It gave him control over everything Peter thought he might need control over for a first time - depth, speed and angle being the most important.

It was clear when Sylar found the position he wanted, bent forward, one hand on the shower wall and the other stroking himself. He seemed to want it fast too, but he couldn't get the rhythm down. "Fuck me, Peter. I'm close. God, I'm close." He was tugging at himself hard and fast. Peter took a firmer hold of his hips and tried to match that pattern, pumping into him determinedly. Sylar had been right - he was close. He came almost immediately, spurting on the wall in front of him.

Peter didn't stop. He pummeled his ass until he was well and thoroughly reamed out, until even through regeneration, at the moment at least, Sylar's asshole was sore and hurting from such unfamiliar use. He came inside of him after a hammering the like of which he hadn't given to anyone in a very long time.

He pulled out slowly, enjoying the almost-yell Sylar made at feeling Peter's length drag out of his body, through his over-stimulated butthole. Sylar's fingers trembled on the wall, half-curled against it. His body shook. Peter stepped up close to him, resting a hand on Sylar's shoulder blade. "Master?" he asked in a soft voice. "Did your slave fuck you properly?"

"Oh God yes," he panted, head hanging.

Peter waited a few more moments, until the worst of Sylar's shaking had subsided, before pushing the showerhead towards the wall and turning it on. He turned it back gradually, then dumped what little was left of the ice cream down the drain. He got down the body wash. "This is why we do this stuff in the shower," Peter said.

Sylar had turned around now so that his back was to the wall. He still looked plowed, mouth slack, breathing hard, head against the wall. All he managed to say was, "Oh God yes."


	8. Shock

All shiny-clean and washed, they climbed into bed. Peter's hand fell on Sylar's member like it belonged there, provoking Sylar into pulling it away and putting it higher on his body. "Peter, we've already done it four times in one day. Maybe it's different for you, but for me that's a lot. I'm kind of worn out." At Peter's disappointed look, he said, "How many times have you done it in a day anyway?"

Peter laughed hollowly. "A lot more than four." He leaned in and nuzzled Sylar, who tilted his head back and enjoyed the intimacy. Peter murmured, "You know what I love? That you have _no idea_. None at all." Sylar tensed a little at the implication he was ignorant and Peter moved back so they could see one another. "And for all your evil, you don't have a patch on my brother. Not a patch."

Sylar eyed him. "Should I be insulted by that?"

"Oh, no," Peter smiled and melted a little. "No, baby, don't ever be. It's why I'm here with you, instead of with him. Just remember that - this is where I want to be." Peter snuggled up next to him, enjoying the moment while it lasted.

It happened that night.

* * *

Sylar woke, not sure what had broken his slumber. Peter was still next to him, clinging needily, like he expected to lose him at any moment. He still wasn't used to sleeping with someone, so he assumed Peter had moved or made a noise. He shifted his position a little and tried to go back to sleep.

A few seconds later, he realized Peter wasn't asleep – his breathing was light, his body not as relaxed as it should have been, his grip on his body too purposeful. Sylar started to turn to him, but he heard a sound, like the scuff of a rubber-soled shoe on the tile. He jerked his head up and focused his enhanced hearing. Someone - no, four or five someones - were coming through the kitchen. Peter's hand was on his wrist immediately. "Sylar," he said.

At that moment, Sylar didn't put two and two together. He thought Peter was grabbing him because he'd heard the noise and was startled or afraid. Shaking himself free of him took only a half-second, but it was critical. There was a pair of thumps and a clicking noise and Sylar wasn't on his feet to see them throw the grenades in the room or try to block them with telekinesis. A second later he was up and moving forward when they exploded. Shrapnel perforated his body.

A moment after that there were flashing lights and he was still trying to get his bearings after the explosion. He was hit across the chest and abdomen. It felt like someone had shot him with golf balls, really hard. It knocked him back against the wall. He tried to stand up, but his legs didn't cooperate. He was stunned suddenly, blood cascading out of parts it shouldn't be cascading out of. They'd been bullets, although the exit wounds were probably the size of golf balls. He fell to the floor, blinking and fighting back shock as a black-clad man with a semi-automatic rifle swung the barrel of his gun to the bed, where Peter was. Terror clutched at Sylar's heart.

A second passed. Nothing happened. That was when Sylar put it together. They didn't shoot Peter. The barrel swung back to him as he felt sensation come back to his lower body. He began to lift an arm. Another spray of bullets punctured him. There must have been a head shot involved, because this time he lost consciousness.

He heard things before he saw them:

Peter's voice: "Give me that and get out of the way."

A stranger: "He's giving commands. He's not allowed to do that!"

Another stranger… or… was that Noah Bennet? Sylar had heard that voice before: "It doesn't matter who does it. He has the training."

The first stranger again: "It's _my_ job!"

Someone else, urgent: "Shot line! Get back!"

Noah, very calmly: "I'm right behind you, Peter. Do it."

Somewhere in the conversation, someone touched his hip or his thigh, he wasn't sure. And there was a scuffle, but he didn't know the details. He blinked his eyes open. There was blood matting them and his lids were sticky. They'd turned the lights on. There were other people in the background, but he didn't pay attention to them.

Peter was patting his face, kneeling next to him where he was still slumped up against the wall. Noah was standing behind Peter, gun to the back of his head. Peter either hadn't noticed, or didn't care. Sylar thought it might be both, as Peter seemed entirely focused on him.

"You with me, Sylar?" he asked softly.

He still couldn't nod or speak. He was doing his best not to cough as his lungs struggled to deal with the blood that was in them. If he could hold back, it would reabsorb into his body. Peter was turning his arm, finding a vein. He tried to track his eyes down and saw Peter push in a syringe. He didn't even feel it.

"Do it, do it, doit-doit" the man with the semi-automatic murmured nervously. He stood to one side where he had a clear shot. "He's waking _up_."

"He needs to heal more or this will just kill him," Peter said with an admirable attempt at being calm. His head came forward an inch as the barrel of Noah's gun pushed him. The tension in the room was could have been cut with a knife.

"Dead is an option," Noah said as if they were discussing bus routes.

"It wasn't the _preferred_ one," Peter said through clenched teeth, giving up the attempt to be calm. He was hunched over where he had the syringe advanced into Sylar's arm, protecting it from interference. "Just wait. Please wait. I'm right here. I'll stop him." Noah didn't back off, but he didn't fire, either.

A few seconds passed as Sylar could feel his body knitting back together, his heartbeat steadying and that terrible urge to cough fading. His head was clearing too. He felt something cold creep up his arm and he looked down at it again. Peter had depressed the plunger. Whatever it was, it was within his body now. His eyes flew to Peter's face and Peter mouthed, "I love you," before pulling the needle out and saying aloud. "It's done."

Pain filled him in a sudden wash and in the space between one heartbeat and the next, he lost his abilities permanently.


	9. Hopeless

**A/N: I want to be clear that Peter had, in addition to the nitrous, a local anesthetic. He's tough - really tough - but efforts would be made to make it easy for him to hold still. Sylar just wasn't paying attention.**

Sylar was hauled up to his feet by someone who came in past machine-gun guy, who had backed off. He hurt all over and his legs were weak but for the moment, for the sake of his dignity, he cooperated. He would have been fighting, but he couldn't quite focus. He felt stunned. They jerked him out into the open at the foot of the bed. Rather distantly he registered that the grenades had irrevocably ruined his carpet. People were talking, but it was like they were at the end of a long tunnel.

Nausea rose up in him as an irresistible wave. He threw up and doubled over. Someone hit him on the side of the head, over his ear and probably with the butt of a gun because it was a lot harder than a fist should have been. He heard the sound of Peter's voice and to his relief, there was something of a warning in it, a tone that he hoped was protective, even if he couldn't understand why Peter would do what he'd done.

_I'd rather be dead than powerless!_ His body was suffering from the loss and intellectually he knew the shock would pass eventually. Right now what he was feeling the most was the loss of regeneration, an ability that subtly propped up his natural systems. Now they were floundering with the sudden withdrawal.

There was more talking, but he didn't listen. He couldn't see. He could barely think. He was being hustled down a hallway and it wasn't his. He looked around, feeling a jolt of fear at the realization they weren't in his apartment anymore and he hadn't even noticed them leave it.

Somehow they'd ended up somewhere else entirely - a concrete bunker maybe, though some attempts had been made to decorate it and cover up the very utilitarian purpose of the place. There was a man on either side of him, arms under his, towing him along by main force. He staggered and stumbled. Someone behind him kicked him back to his feet.

As he came up, the grip of one of the men wasn't as firm as it should have been - as it needed to be. Sylar balled a fist and turned, swinging at the man behind him who'd kicked him. It was machine-gun guy and he caught him right across the cheek with everything he had, knocking the man back and almost down. The other two were on Sylar immediately, getting his arms and pulling them back behind him.

The man snarled and got up, then punched Sylar in the gut. The blow seemed to set him on fire with pain and his bile rose again - what little was left. It burned his throat and choked him. Spittle and worse flowed from his mouth as his stomach emptied the very last of its contents.

The man grabbed his hair and jerked his head up. Sylar's body betrayed him. It was weak. There was nothing he could do but watch as the man cocked back his fist and drove it forward. It stopped suddenly, jarringly. Peter's voice called out, "You know, Nathan might want to do that himself. That's the only reason why I brought the guy here." The man looked past Sylar, behind him. Presumably at Peter. He kicked Sylar in the shin, which hurt, but not as much as getting hit in the face would have.

"Get him moving," machine-gun guy ordered to the two holding Sylar. They turned him and fairly drug him down the corridor.

Peter was still with him. That gave him hope, in a way. He'd said he loved him, hadn't he? Wasn't that the shape his lips had made? Why the hell would he do that if it was over? But if it wasn't over, why would he betray him like this? He kept replaying that moment the day before where Peter had said there'd come a time when he'd have to trust him.

This was ridiculous though. He'd lost his abilities forever. What sort of trust was there in that? He wouldn't be worth loving if they got out of here. He certainly wouldn't love Peter anymore. The cost was too high. He'd kill himself. Maybe he could goad Nathan into killing him instead.

They hauled him into a room and dropped him into an old-style, heavy metal office chair with a green, vinyl seat. His hands were cuffed to the arms of it - one set of cuffs with a chain long enough to loop through the frame of the chair. He suspected it said something that they had restraints custom fabricated. The metal arms of the chair were scuffed and scratched as though many others had sat here and struggled, yanking the chain uselessly across it.

Sylar tried to think of something else besides his helplessness. His assailants withdrew. He hung his head and coughed, trying to clear his airway. He must have aspirated some of the vomit because he couldn't quite get his breath. It was across the front of his shirt. The stench was awful. No one seemed to care. He didn't expect them to.

Minutes passed, perhaps more. People came and went in the room. There was a strange buzzing noise, followed a few minutes later by a noise he was well familiar with – the sound of bone being cut. Another noise accompanied it – Peter making a sound of suffering. He blinked and focused ahead of him, where Peter had his head bent to the arm of the couch. He was naked again, which was confusing, but whatever. An elderly man stood next to him with what looked like a small drill.

The man said something Sylar couldn't catch. He really missed his enhanced hearing. Of course, he missed all his abilities. If he'd had them, he wouldn't be chained to a chair, so fucked up he could hardly keep his head up. Peter responded to the man, shoving away a small gas canister that was sitting on the floor. He snarled, "I don't want the fucking nitrous!"

"Peter!" the man answered sharply and said something else less distinct, but Peter wasn't listening to him. He'd shifted to the side and grabbed the canister, about the size of a very large thermos, but much heavier. He looked from it up to Sylar, meeting his eyes. He nodded once and righted the metal cylinder.

"Fine," Peter said. "I'll use it." He put a clear plastic mask over his face and after a minute, he put his head back down. One quick whir of the drill, another whimper of pain, and the man picked up a small device and inserted it into Peter's head. Sylar blinked. _What the hell?_ Admittedly he was a little distance away, but that looked like the same kind of implant he'd taken out of Peter's skull yesterday. It would kill his powers. They'd _both_ be helpless.

He shook and hung his head again. It hurt – a steady, pounding headache to go along with the burning in his throat and lungs. Every breath and every heartbeat made him ache. He wished he could stop both. More minutes passed. A familiar voice impinged on his consciousness - one he'd heart on the television many times, even if he'd rarely paid attention to it: the president.

He looked around the room again. Everyone was standing at something like attention. Peter was half-sitting on the arm of the couch, still naked, and kissing Nathan Petrelli, who stood there allowing himself to be kissed, but seeming indifferent to it. Peter was putting everything into it, his every motion a plea for attention and affection. Nathan ignored him, but he stayed right there where he could receive Peter's ministrations.

Sylar felt ill. And angry – angry at Peter for betraying him, jealous that after everything they'd talked about, Peter was sucking up to Nathan the moment he walked in the room. Peter was damaged goods in more ways than one. He was sick in the head. Nathan had obviously broken him time after time and he'd healed wrong. He was insane. It was the only explanation for how his mouth worked on Nathan's, the same begging subservience that had so turned Sylar on. It was repulsive to see him direct it to the man who had molested and abused him – bizarre to see it utterly unreturned.

They were certainly right out in the open about it. The emotion and anger seemed to help Sylar focus and clear his head. He looked around the room at the dozen or so people here. No one was shocked, though a few looked uncomfortable. Noah Bennet said very blandly, "I think the president would like to have some time alone with his brother to get reacquainted. Let's give them a moment."

The room cleared. As people filed past Sylar, they either ignored him pointedly, or smirked knowingly at him. It made him cold and frankly, scared the hell out of him. He wished they'd just get to the part where they killed him. Noah was the last to filter by. He had a different expression: assessing and cautious, like there was something up and he hadn't quite figured it out. His strides had slowed as he passed Sylar, who looked back up at him, confused. When he could slow no more without looking suspicious, Noah picked up his pace and went on. Sylar turned to watch him go. The door shut heavily behind him.

He turned back. There were two people in the room other than himself, Nathan and Peter. One was a thin, wiry young Asian he suspected was Trevor, who could stop time, and the other was the machine-gun guy, who was too generic in appearance for Sylar to place him among the many security stooges Peter had mentioned the day before. Trevor was tinkering with what looked like an iPad, off to the side of the room. Machine-gun guy was watching Peter's unrequited fondling of Nathan with rather more interest than Sylar thought he should.

Nathan broke from Peter, who was looking up at him with that rapt, adoring expression Sylar had so loved. He shivered in disgust. He'd thought it was real. He'd been a sucker, an idiot. He might have thought more along those lines, but Nathan was walking over to him. He squatted a little to the side, where he couldn't be kicked. He looked into Sylar's face with an empty curiosity and an unblinking stare. There was something positively inhuman in him, something reptilian. Sylar suspected that like Peter, Nathan could change his face quicker than putting on a new hat.

Nathan reached out and smeared his finger through the puke on Sylar's pajama top. He sniffed it and looked at Sylar, saying simply, "Vomit." He looked at his finger for a moment, then stuck it in his mouth and sucked it clean. Sylar gagged and dry heaved immediately in an involuntary spasm. That had to be the grossest thing he'd ever seen anyone do in person. Pain flared through his body as the nausea passed through him again. His head ached like it might explode.

Nathan smiled at Sylar's agonized expression, giving the impression that he'd done that quite purposefully, just to inflict that reaction. "I hear you fucked my brother." He was still smiling genially, but there was something about it that told Sylar he'd be lucky if death was the worst thing Nathan dished out to him.

Peter sauntered up behind Nathan and ran a hand casually through his hair. Nathan didn't respond at all – it was like he hadn't been touched. Peter said, "Yeah, he couldn't get enough of me. He thought he _owned_ me." Peter walked around behind Sylar, the hand that had touched Nathan's hair trailing up his arm (despite Sylar's almost instinctive effort to jerk away from him) and across his shoulders as he circled. "He's so responsive. Look at him."

Sylar shuddered. Nathan's smile widened. Sylar would have thought he was going to be sick, but he already was. Instead he just felt profoundly miserable. He didn't think he'd ever felt this wretched and hopeless in his life. Peter walked over to machine-gun guy. "He's kind of like Blake here," he said, copping a feel without preamble. "Always ready to bend me over and take some."

_That's not true,_ Sylar thought, angrily thinking about the times he'd turned Peter down and feeling suddenly self conscious about the times he hadn't. Nathan was watching as Peter continued to massage Blake's groin, pressing his body to him and looking up into his eyes. His other hand moved restlessly up and down Blake's right side, caressing his thigh, his gun, his knife and his combat harness. Blake's expression made it clear the advance was welcome.

Peter breathed open-mouthed at him and turned with a small, wanton groan, pressing his ass to Blake's front. He reached back and put his hands in Blake's pants pockets to tug him against himself in a mockery of sex.

"Peter," Nathan chided gently and Peter let Blake go instantly. The man shifted position, obviously erect, and looked away with a dissatisfied frown. _How many of Nathan's goons has he fucked?_ Sylar thought, teeth clenched.

"Ooo," Peter cooed, looking at Sylar's face. "Look at him, Nathan. Look how upset he is." He grinned and knelt next to Sylar, opposite from Nathan. Peter took Sylar's hand in his. Sylar jerked away from him and Peter bit his lower lip teasingly. He took Sylar's hand again and then again and again until finally Sylar gave up, swallowed and looked away.

Peter wrapped his hand around his and then turned and put his knees on the floor in front of him. He could be kicked. Sylar considered it. Strongly. If he'd had shoes on, he probably would have. Peter's fingers worked against his hand as he leaned forward and kissed Nathan deeply right in front of him.

Sylar almost didn't notice Peter press the key to his handcuffs against his palm. Once he did, he nearly didn't manage to cover his surprise. The pair broke apart and Nathan looked to catch his expression. Fearing it might not be suitable, Sylar lifted his foot and shoved Peter away from him hard. He fell with a little grunt. Sylar snarled at him. It wasn't hard.

The key really made no difference. What the hell was he going to do with it? Neither of them had abilities, there was an armed guard standing nearby and probably more outside, and Trevor was in the room. He'd put a stop to everything as soon as it started because that was his job and that was his power.

Sylar did notice that this was the extent of Nathan's defenses at the moment. It was one of the many scenarios Peter had talked about, but all of those had involved Sylar having his powers. In the scenario, it was Sylar's job to incapacitate Trevor while Peter distracted or dealt with anyone else in the room. He looked back. Peter and Nathan were standing together (out of kicking range, sadly), and Peter was peppering Nathan's face with kisses. Nathan seemed unmoved. He didn't look distracted. Neither did Blake.

Peter began begging Nathan for sex and tried to pull him in the direction of the couch. Sylar tried not to listen to his entreaties – how much he'd missed Nathan, how much he wanted him, promises of never letting anyone fuck him without Nathan's permission again, etc. Sylar rolled his eyes and contented himself with glaring at Blake.

Nathan looked over at Sylar, no doubt at his face darkened with rage at the idea he was going to be forced to witness Peter getting it on with his brother. "Suck him off," Nathan said.

Peter hesitated, saying, "Sylar?"

"Yes. Show me," Nathan said. "I want to see you pleasure him before I have him killed for touching you."


	10. Death Before Dishonor

A moment of silence passed. Nathan's eyes turned from Sylar to Peter, who smiled coyly for him. Peter walked forward to his former lover and knelt in front of him. Sylar kicked him again, having no interest in this. "Get away from me," he hissed. Peter reached out and snagged the leg of his pajamas, then moved back in. When Sylar tried to kick him away once more, Peter fell back, pulling hard on the cloth and jerking the pants off. "Shit!" Sylar exclaimed. They were just pajama bottoms, with nothing but an elastic band to hold them on.

Peter smirked at him, balled up the fabric and tossed it aside.

"I will kick your fucking teeth in," Sylar ground out. He'd lost track of how much of this might be an act and how much wasn't. He didn't give much of a shit anyway. "There are some things I'd rather not live without and my dignity's one of them." Apparently, obviously, Peter did not share this opinion.

Nathan stood holding one elbow in one hand as the other hand caressed the corners of his mouth. He seemed intrigued and pleased by the dynamic. "We could always chain his legs down."

"No," Peter said, locking eyes with Sylar. "Let him kick me. I deserve it." Sylar exhaled sharply and looked away as Peter's words ran all through him. Peter reached out and touched his knee experimentally. Sylar didn't move. He wasn't sure if Peter deserved to be kicked or not, but when Peter put it _that_ way, he couldn't do it. Peter scooted forward and pushed Sylar's knees apart.

"Peter, don't do this, please," Sylar said, low and quiet. He was fairly sure Nathan could hear him anyway, but he wasn't talking to him. He was talking to Peter.

"Nathan's asked me to. You know I have to. That's how it is," Peter replied, looking over at Nathan. One corner of Nathan's mouth curled upwards. Peter turned back. He reached up and caressed the side of Sylar's face and for a moment, it was like there was no one else in the room except one another. Sylar shut his eyes and Peter moved closer, his body against the chair. He gingerly unbuttoned the pajama top and neatly spread it to the sides, minimizing the mess.

He stroked Sylar's face again and leaned in to kiss him. Sylar shook his head, breathing harder. He was getting aroused despite himself and he hated it. Peter chased his mouth determinedly. Sylar considered head butting him. The only thing that stopped him was the impression that Peter would continue no matter what he did to hurt him.

"Let me. Let me, Sylar." Peter whispered.

"My mouth is _nasty_. I don't think you have any idea how much I'd just rather die." Sylar kept avoiding him.

"You don't get to die until Nathan lets you. That's how it is. Remember I mentioned the serum from Claire's blood? They'll just keep bringing you back."

Sylar stared at Peter, wondering how many times he'd been brought back. How many times do you have to die before you give up on trying to escape that way? Peter's lips closed over his. Sylar blinked and looked away, but he let Peter kiss him, lips shut. He looked past him, to see Nathan drop his hands to his sides, moving them restlessly and adjusting his pants.

Nathan said breathily, "Yeah, kiss him, Pete. You're always so sweet with them. So sweet."

Sylar twisted his head away as he realized the meaning of Nathan's words. How many people had Peter screwed on his brother's orders? His face was a mask as he regarded Peter, who began to work his way down. Peter spoke softly as he went, saying, "This is the easiest torture you're going to get. If you're lucky, it's the _only_ one you'll get. Think about me, Sylar. Just me. No one else is in here. Just us. This is a game. The more you can put yourself in the game, the faster you'll come. And the faster you're done, the faster this is over. Do you understand?" He licked lightly at a nipple. "I'm trying to _help_ you here."

Sylar groaned, caught between standing his metaphorical ground and doing what Peter was asking. Because he was right. He was going to come and then they were going to kill him. If he wanted to do anything meaningful with what was left of his life, then he needed to get loose and strike back at them.

He jerked his hands against the chair, rattling the chain noisily. He twisted his hand, trying to figure out how to unlock the cuffs without being obvious, using Peter's body as a shield, using his restless squirming as a cover. Peter's mouth had dropped to his groin, but his hands were still on the arms of the chair, laid over Sylar's, obscuring what Sylar was doing.

Peter's head bobbed up and down and Sylar found his concentration blown. "Peter… God… slower," he ground out and Peter obliged, though the thing that helped most was that Peter _was_ trying to help. And he did what Sylar told him to, which, given the situation, was much more appreciated than normal. Sylar's ego had taken a bit of a beating lately and getting even a cooperative motion from Peter made him feel better.

Sylar turned one hand and wrapped it around Peter's arm, struggling against everything - the arousal, his frustration, the pain still surging in his gut and head and the distressing fact that his loins reacted to mechanical stimulation without his consent. He tried to block out everything and focus on just two things: how good it felt to have Peter with him, no matter what else was going on; and how to unlock these damn handcuffs.

Sylar gasped as Nathan startled him by walking up behind Peter. Truthfully, Sylar had more or less forgotten they were there. Certainly the things Peter was doing to him were distracting. Now he palmed the key quickly and hoped Nathan thought his shock was from something Peter did. Nathan dropped to his knees behind Peter and urged him to raise his rump. He stroked Peter's back, making him moan around Sylar's cock. To Sylar's embarrassment, his dick surged to full life at that.

He locked eyes with Nathan, who still had that infuriating smile on his face. He rubbed Peter's back, then pulled back with his nails, biting them in hard enough to leave marks. Peter made a stifled, but receptive-sounding cry. Adrenaline shot through Sylar hard enough to make him shake, but there was nothing to be done about it.

"This is my baby brother," Nathan said, watching Sylar's impotent fury. "He's sucking you because I told him to. If I tell him to bite your cock off, he'll do that too." He dropped one hand to Peter's ass and began to work it in that slow, steady manner of his. Peter made a noise and wiggled his ass. Sylar wanted to be losing his erection, but his body had other ideas as long as Peter's mouth was working him. Nathan went on, "He lets anyone fuck him that I tell him to let fuck him, but I didn't tell him to let _you_ do it."

Peter moaned again and Sylar winced at the surge of arousal that sound provoked. He could care less for what Nathan was saying, but hearing it turn on Peter - or at least sound like it turned him on, went straight to him. Seeing the subtle motions of Peter's butt as it swayed in time with Nathan's fingers wasn't helping either. He could have done without having Nathan there, though.

Peter moved a hand to Sylar's cock and stroked as he lifted his head. Nathan didn't see the apologetic look he sent to Sylar. Then he looked back over his shoulder and said, "You know what Nate? I topped him last night."

Nathan jerked slightly, obviously startled by the news. "What?" He recovered his impassive demeanor quickly, but his breathing sped up.

"I fucked him in the shower."

"You…" Anger crept into Nathan's tone. "You said you _couldn't_, you little slut. All those therapists said you couldn't get it up anymore." Sylar blinked. Peter hadn't had the least problem with that – at least… not with _him_. He thought about saying this, just to piss Nathan off more, but decided to keep his mouth shut and leave the manipulation of Nathan Petrelli to the expert.

Peter gaped a grin at his brother. "Yeah. But I could for _him_. He was a virgin, Nate. I popped his cherry. And that was _after_ I had my memories back." That apparently meant something to Nathan, because his features darkened and twisted. He opened his trousers and pulled out a disturbingly thick member. Sylar didn't get to see much of it though before he was burying it inside of Peter, who put his hands on Sylar's hips and arched his back, an expression of pain or concentration or both on his face. He braced himself against Sylar's body and let Nathan ride him hard.

Sylar watched Peter's face. He wasn't enjoying this. He was focused on it; he was working, but he wasn't enjoying it. Sylar had seen him enjoying sex and this wasn't it. Something eased in his chest at that.

After most of a minute passed, Peter started talking, telling Nathan how good it had been, how eager Sylar was, and how thorough a job he'd done in fucking him. Sylar, for his part, finally lost his erection and was grateful for that. He looked off to the side and watched a spot on the floor. Voyeurism had never done it for him. It was bad enough having Peter rocking into him with every thrust and grunting when Nathan was especially vigorous.

While he wanted to be pissed at Peter, everything Peter was saying was highly complimentary to him. Nathan was clearly enraged by it and he pounded Peter's ass with a singular attention. Sylar wished very hard he didn't have to be involved so intimately in this. He wanted to scrub off the skin where Peter was touching him - not so much because Peter was touching him, but because another man was having sex with him while he touched him.

Peter pulled back a little and looked down at Sylar's wilted member. "He's spent," he announced. "And I want more. Blake?" He looked back at the man, who had been standing there staring, lightly rubbing his groin, for some time.

"You insatiable wretch," Nathan said, pulling out roughly and jerking Peter around by the shoulder. "You never get enough, do you?" He shoved him in the direction of the couch and moved to it, giving some quick directions. Peter shuffled around, not going quite where he was supposed to the first time. Nathan slapped him for his misunderstanding. Peter accidentally kicked over the nitrous canister. It rolled over towards Sylar and bumped up against his foot. He blinked at it, remembering that look Peter had given him earlier - what seemed like hours before, but was probably only thirty minutes ago.

When he looked up, Peter was bent over the arm of the couch with Blake beginning to screw him from behind and Nathan standing on the couch on his knees, putting his dick in Peter's mouth. Which was pretty gross, given that said organ had been in Peter's ass moments before. Of course, Peter had kissed Sylar and Sylar had vomited less than an hour previously. He could understand why Peter might have some performance issues. If he ever got together with Peter again, _he_ would have performance issues. Of course, he was planning on killing himself, so that wasn't much of a problem. That was so certain in his mind that he didn't even dwell on it.

He shuddered at the sight though. One thing was for sure, both men were thoroughly distracted _now_ and Peter had managed to move them away from Sylar. He looked over at Trevor, who was entirely facing away, earphones installed, head bobbing slightly to music. Sylar was vaguely relieved that not everyone around here was into this. He twisted his hand back and nearly fumbled the key.

It felt like his heart stopped. It started beating again as he got a better grip on the slender key. He was not going to end his life like this - shackled to a chair and listening to his… (he finally decided that lover wasn't an inappropriate term) lover be virtually raped by a pair of sadistic brutes. He was going to do something with the rest of his life. He unlocked the cuff and slowly worked it open.

He looked at Trevor again. He'd have one chance at this – just one. He looked back at Blake, who had merely opened his pants, not dropped them. His weapons were still easy to hand and Nathan might be packing too. He wished he'd paid more attention when Nathan had been so close, fucking Peter. Of course, he hadn't been all that interested in watching. But did it even matter? Well, given that according to Peter, Nathan would just have him revived if he tried to suicide… then yeah, it did matter. They had to carry through.

He picked up the canister with an easy, unhurried motion, then sprinted towards Trevor with the cylinder held high. There was a shout behind him, but Trevor didn't stir. He had the music cranked enough that he wouldn't hear a single cry of passion - or a yell of warning. When the heavy metal object hit him, it made a sickening crunch. Sylar'd smashed enough skulls to know_ that_ was instantly fatal. Probably a better death than Trevor deserved, if this is the sort of thing he's been turning a blind eye and deaf ear to.

He turned back to see that Peter was already struggling with Blake, a gun in his hand. Nathan grabbed Peter from behind, getting a half-Nelson on him. Sylar charged and Nathan failed to disentangle himself fast enough to dodge. Sylar slammed the canister into him and felt a satisfying crack of Nathan's upper arm breaking. Nathan fell back, stumbling on the couch and falling. The gun went off between Peter and Blake.

Sylar didn't bother to look. It didn't really matter. He swung the canister into Nathan twice more, crushing part of his face and hitting a more glancing blow off his shoulder. He probably wasn't dead, but he was out of the fight for good. There was another gunshot and a grunt, then two more shots in quick succession. Sylar spun. For a moment it was difficult to tell who'd been hit, then Blake crumpled and fell. Peter staggered back, blood running down his leg from being shot in the thigh. It was coming out fast. It must have hit the artery.

Sylar stared at him blankly, unsure of what to do now. There were shouts from the hallway outside, but for the moment, no one opened the door. Peter clawed at the back of his head. "Help me. Noah won't hold them for long. Get his knife." He pointed at Blake. Sylar complied. Peter glanced back at Nathan to make sure he wasn't an issue, then pointed at the back of his own head. "Pry that thing out. It's going to hurt like hell and tear me up. Do it anyway. I'll heal. Cut it out if you have to." Peter was pale and starting to shake. Blood surged from his body.

Sylar pushed Peter's head down and put the tip of the knife to edge of the device. He hesitated. If he did it, Peter would get his powers back. Sylar's would still be gone. He'd been used. Peter had manipulated him like a tool, a weapon, or maybe just a distraction, to get his brother. And now he was done. It was over, once Peter had his powers back. Peter was shaking harder, slipping rapidly into shock. Sweat broke out across his skin.

"I love you, Sylar," he hissed out, fully aware that Sylar was standing there doing absolutely nothing, probably also aware that Sylar was considering that he didn't _have_ to do this. If he wanted to make a murder-suicide, this was his chance.

It had been nice while it lasted, Sylar reflected. Even if 'while it lasted' had only been a few days. He made up his mind. "I love you too, Peter."

He tore out the inhibitor. Peter fell forward, clutching at the back of his head. It would take him a handful of seconds, maybe even half a minute, to heal. Sylar looked at the knife and felt almost like he wasn't in his own body. He was watching himself from the outside.

Everything was surreal and distant. The knife was sharp. It had Peter's blood on it. He tasted it. It tasted good. He shifted his grip on it, put the point of it to the side of his neck, and jammed it in. He jerked it forward in an almost convulsive action, and collapsed dead to the floor.


	11. Resurrection

Sylar was floating in darkness, surrounded by irregular flashes of light. He thought he had to be inside a great thundercloud in the middle of the night. Every now and then his body shook slightly as if from silent thunder. He was cold, dreadfully cold. _Aren't I supposed to be going towards the light or falling or something?_

He had no sense of up or down, but the flashes were becoming more frequent. He was warm in a sudden wash, a hot breeze blowing over and through his body as though he were insubstantial. The fog around him lightened to grey and then began to clear in the wind. He knew he could see if he could just remember how to blink…

He blinked up and saw… Peter. Sylar's head was in his lap and Peter was stroking his forehead tenderly, smiling at him like he was the only thing in the world. "I must be in heaven," Sylar murmured. Someone snorted off to the side. He rolled his head a little and looked up to see Noah Bennet standing to one side, eyeing him. "Or maybe hell," Sylar amended.

"I need to go," Noah said, walking off around the far end of the couch, avoiding the blood at the other end.

Sylar pulled himself up to a sitting position. The bodies were gone, but the blood remained. So did Blake's gun and knife. There was an empty syringe on the coffee table in front of him and a second one that was still full. Peter turned to Noah and said, "I'll need to see Dwayne and Erica. Give me five minutes, then send them in." Those were the two who could negate abilities. With Sylar powerless and an inhibitor installed in Peter, there'd been no reason to have them in the room.

"As you say, Mr. President," Noah nodded and went out. Sylar glanced between Noah and Peter. Obviously Noah Bennet knew which side of his bread was buttered.

After the door shut, Sylar said quietly, "Damnit, Peter. I wanted to be dead. You can't… please don't do to me what your brother did to you." He looked at Peter intently and said very gently, "Let me go. Let me die. Don't do this."

Peter cringed at his words, but reached out and took up the full syringe. He looked at Sylar and said, "If you had your powers back, would you stay?"

Sylar looked at the needle. "There's no shot that can give me that. The best you can do is give me some fucked up version of intuitive aptitude and what good is that without the rest? I had to kill over a hundred people to get those abilities. They're _gone_. The people who had them are _gone_. I'll have one ability at a time and I'll have to murder for it every time. Woop-de-fucking-doo." He shook his head, teeth clenched. "I'd rather be dead."

Peter swallowed and repeated, "But… if you had _all_ your powers back, would you stay?"

Sylar looked at him. Peter's tone was hurt, but still serious. It gave Sylar pause. He asked, "What's in that needle?"

Peter shook his head briefly and said, "Just what you think it is - a single use power, but if you had the _right _ability, then it would all be okay. Wouldn't it?"

Sylar looked at Peter's eyes, then at his forehead, then back to his eyes as he figured it out. "**Your** ability. You'd let me take _**your**_ ability?"

Peter nodded. "And then you'd have every ability I had." He smiled. "Including all of yours. They're not lost, Sylar. I have them. And… if you want… you can let me heal afterwards and we can be together. Or if you don't… then leave me dead. Because you're right. There are some things that I'd rather not live without."

* * *

Sylar left the clean-up to Peter, who shape shifted into Nathan while Sylar posed as Peter for a while. He just stood around looking shell-shocked, which was apparently not that unusual for Peter. At least, no one seemed to notice. Sylar watched as people discreetly edged away from him. Their thoughts revealed they uniformly thought Peter was a freak, an aberration and a danger. He was viewed with disgust, like some sort of deviant, emotionally disturbed man-child that Nathan was forced to pander to because of his abilities. It was a bizarre rationalization that didn't stand up to logic. But hate rarely did.

As Nathan, Peter expressed his relief at being reunited with his brother and announced to the staff that they would be taking a vacation and carrying out "evaluations" to make sure Peter was still able to serve his country. Sylar frowned. People edged further away from him. He gathered that Peter was not always non-violent when his brother announced things he didn't care for.

In Nathan's office, with a staff member standing by taking orders, Peter picked a remote Caribbean island, one of those resort places where you're isolated from the world and a small boat brings you supplies every few days and checks on you. There would be a house, a beach, the ocean and each other. Nothing else. Arrangements were made. Sylar stared out the window at the night, glad that Peter was sane enough and functional enough to handle it, because at the moment, Sylar was still reeling from events.

The staff member left. Peter walked up behind him and Sylar jumped away from his touch, eyes wide. He still looked like Nathan. Peter glanced back at the door and barred it with telekinesis. He shifted back to himself, dressed as he had been the day before – jeans and a t-shirt. Sylar dropped his false appearance too, taking on his normal shape, illusioning some equally generic clothes.

Peter reached for him slowly and Sylar looked away, out the window, but he didn't back off again. For a moment he stood there stiffly with Peter's hand on his arm, then he lifted the arm slightly and allowed Peter to slip in next to him, hugging him. After a while he turned his face and made a kissing motion towards the side of Peter's head, but his lips didn't touch him. "I love you," he murmured.

"I love you, too," Peter said. "It's okay if it takes a while. I understand that. I can be patient."

"I just… don't understand how you made it for so long."

Peter was silent and for a while, they just stood together. Finally he said, "You ready to go?"

Sylar smiled a little. "Yeah. Yeah, I am. I wanted to rule the world. Now all I want to do is get away from it."

* * *

Sylar waded out into the water and dove, giving himself a small shove with flight. He cut through the warm seawater. It was warmer than the air. His skin, raw in places, stung in the salt water as it healed. He'd scrubbed himself until his hands were bleeding and he still wasn't sure he was clean. The pain helped.

He swam for a while in the grey pre-dawn gloom. He came back to shore when it began to get light, the false dawn brightening the sky. He hoped Peter had cleaned himself too, but he didn't think it was really appropriate to ask or insist. It was psychological, he knew.

He walked up the beach to the bungalow perched atop stilts. Peter walked out on the balcony and smiled down at him, a lazy, amused look. He threw down a pair of shorts. The wind blew them away, but Sylar summoned them to him with telekinesis. He was strangely pleased to see that Peter was wearing a set himself. Sylar pulled his on, then narrowly dodged being hit with a long cushion from one of the recliners. Peter landed next to him, holding his own cushion, giving a playful laugh because he'd missed.

"Come on," Peter invited. "The sun will be rising soon. I want to go watch."

Sylar glanced up at the balcony, but it faced west. They'd be able to watch sunsets from it, but in the other direction was a thicket of palm trees. He picked up the cushion and followed Peter through the air to the other side of the tiny island. Peter tossed his down on the sand and Sylar followed suit, dropping his a few feet away.

Peter looked down at the cushions for a long moment while Sylar's eyes scanned the horizon. There was a space between the cushions – an intentional space. Sylar looked back in time to catch the edge of Peter's deeply hurt expression as he turned and sat down on the other side, facing away.

Sylar frowned and looked at his cushion. He'd put it there on purpose, because really… he didn't want to be that close to Peter yet. Every time he touched Peter, his mind flashed to Nathan touching him. His subconscious had unhelpfully fabricated a map of every part he'd seen Nathan touch and he was uncomfortable putting his body against those parts. It was stupid and he knew that, but it didn't make it any less real.

He looked at Peter's back. What he wanted wasn't what he needed, or what both of them needed. Peter turned and lay down, acting like nothing important had happened. It was that pretense that he hadn't been hurt that led Sylar to reach out with his foot and nudge his cushion over next to Peter's. Peter glanced down at it with a slight stirring of his brows. Sylar lay down in the middle of it, rather than on the far edge like he wanted to. "Come here, pet."

Peter rolled to him, curling in his arms. Sylar hugged him gingerly and said, "I'm sorry, but you're right. It's going to take me a while." Peter nodded and moved away, putting some space between them again. Sylar was grateful he'd kept the contact brief. He tried to chase away thoughts of Nathan's hands on Peter... and worse.

He watched the ever-brightening line where the ocean met the sky. When it seemed the sunrise was never going to get around to actually happening, he turned to Peter and put his hand on the side of his face, pulling him over so he could kiss his forehead. He had to do it. He had to get over this. Peter didn't deserve his reticence.

"You smell like coconut," he observed.

Peter smiled. "I showered and washed up."

"Ah." That pleased Sylar and he relaxed a fraction. Now that Peter mentioned it, his hair was damp. Sylar offered, "I tried to sandblast myself." The sky was so bright it almost hurt to look at it, but it wasn't quite there. Sylar laughed nervously. "Do you ever really feel clean again?" He watched Peter out of the corner of his eye, not wanting to offend, but feeling he needed to confront the issue, even if only indirectly.

Peter made a small, hopeless shrug and took a deep breath. "I felt clean with you." He blinked several times as if holding back tears. "I _**feel**_ clean with you," he said, changing the tense.

A knot formed in Sylar's throat and he rolled over, drawing Peter to him. This time he kissed his lips – a chaste pressing together, but it was a kiss any way you looked at it. Silent tears fell down Peter's face. The sun's rays washed over them, dispelling the coolness and bringing warmth.

**A/N: Don't forget to review! Oh, and how do you like this as an ending point? Or do you want make-up sex on the beach? (Or in the beach bungalow, wherever they end up.) I take requests.**


	12. Provocations

**A/N: This is the phone conversation that Peter had while Sylar was sleeping between chapters Getting Over the Fear and Waking Up Alone. Peter did a number of other things during this time, teleporting around invisibly and spying, as he said, but this was the only time he spoke with his brother. I know I marked this story as Complete and said it was done with, but I had this written and thought people might want to read it. It's from Peter's POV and I hope it shows how calculating he was at manipulating Nathan. By this point he'd already settled on his plan. He knew his time was very limited, because the daily precognition efforts aimed at keeping Nathan safe would detect his assassination attempt if he let too much time pass between formulating a plan and carrying it out.**

Peter dialed Nathan's personal number. He knew it by heart. Eidetic memory didn't hurt either. Even though it was Nathan's personal number, he didn't answer it himself. He had people for that and today that person was Terry. After Terry's standard greeting, Peter said, "Hey. It's me, Peter. Let me talk to Nathan."

Peter was known, and his voice was recognized immediately. There was a moment of silence and then Terry came back on, saying, "He'll be right with you. Just a moment."

A little more silence, and Nathan's cool, crisp voice came on the line. He sounded like his little brother had just called him up out of the blue, but despite that, he was still glad to hear from him. There was no trace of the hysteria that had been going through the White House following Peter's disappearance. "Hey Pete! Good to hear from you. How are you doing?"

Peter matched him for tone. "I'm okay, Nate. You doing okay?"

"I'm fine, sure. What's up?"

Nathan was being cagey. Peter decided to cut the bullshit. "You know that guy named Sylar?"

Nathan took a moment before responding. "Yeah."

His voice hardened. "He bought me as a _sex_ slave. I restored my memories just a little while ago."

"Is he dead?"

_Ah. He's interested in the bait._ "No." And now Peter introduced strain to his voice and let it bleed in stronger as he spoke. "He fucked me, Nathan. I… I didn't have any memories. I didn't know. I thought… I thought he was you, as much as I could remember you. It felt so familiar… like someone who _should_…"

Nathan's voice was pure velvet, but all he said was, "Pete."

Silence hung between them on the line. Finally Peter said, "I was going to give him to you."

"You let a man fuck you, Pete." Nathan could have been telling him it was likely to rain soon, for all the emotion that was in his voice.

"I didn't know." He sped up his breathing, sounding anxious. "I tried to stop him, but I couldn't. He hurt me. He tortured me with that implant. He beat the crap out of me-"

It sounded like Nathan's lip curled in disgust. "Stop sniveling. Petrellis don't whine like little bitches, Pete. You know that."

He sucked in his breath and held it for a moment. "I know." He paused and then forged on, "There's a doctor. Mark. I don't know his last name, but you can check with him. He had to put stitches in my ass."

"What?" Nathan sounded faintly surprised, which for him meant he was completely thrown.

"I told you I tried to stop him. He… he broke me. I… I _begged_."

He could hear Nathan's breathing on the other end. He was getting somewhere all right. He gave it a few more seconds to let Nathan contemplate how rough the sex had to be to warrant stitches. It hadn't been the actual penetration that had hurt him, but Sylar putting his hands to each cheek and literally pulling him apart with enhanced strength while he did it. When he thought enough time had passed, Peter added, "He fucked me over and over. He knew who I was. He kept talking about you."

"What did he say?" Now Nathan's voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it carried.

"He said that once he'd broken me completely and I was irrevocably his, that he'd kill you, and he'd use me to rule the world."

"And are you… broken completely?"

Peter's voice was small and timid. "I want him." He said nothing else.

"Where is he now?" There was an edge to Nathan's voice. The dual barbs of protectiveness and possessiveness fueled his jealousy, which was what Peter was aiming at – getting him so worked up he didn't think things through. It was tough to get through Nathan's armor, but Peter knew how to do it.

"Asleep. He said he was going to come after you tomorrow." It didn't hurt to toss in a little self-interest to motivate Nathan.

"Why didn't you kill him for me once you had your memories back?"

Peter was silent for a long moment, but it wasn't because he didn't know what to say. Here was where he sealed Sylar's death warrant. If things went bad and he couldn't pull it off, Peter knew he'd survive, but Sylar would not. He made his voice soft. "Because I liked the way he fucked me." He let his voice deepen and express his happiness. This part wasn't hard to do. "It felt great. It felt real. He really thought I was his. It was nice… just to pretend." He smiled because he knew his expression would be heard in his voice. "And so after I had my memories back, I let him fuck me again."

"Pete." This time Nathan's voice wasn't soft. It was sharp like a blade, sharp as Sylar's shaving razor. Peter would have smirked, but he didn't want to risk it flavoring his voice. Now it was time to set the hook.

"I'm going to go back, Nathan. To _him_. And I'm going to let him fuck me again and again, because now I know. And I _could_ stop him, but I won't, because I know I won't get the chance to do this again. You can send a team to come get me tonight. I'll have him for you. Then you can take your turn." He grinned at the last.

There was a long silence. He could hear Nathan's breathing, slightly accelerated, tightly controlled. He even heard him swallow, probably salivating in anticipation. Finally Nathan said a single word: "Where?"

_Hook, line and sinker!_ Peter gave him the address of Gabriel Grey's apartment and made promises of when he'd have Sylar in bed and as defenseless as he was likely to be. He hung up after that and huddled behind the low wall of the roof of the Deveaux Building. He liked coming here. Charles had been a nice guy. Sometimes, when he came here, it almost seemed like he felt the old man's presence. He rocked back and forth, hugging his knees, staring off into nothingness.


	13. Executioner's Burden

**A/N: This is what happened while Sylar was dead between Death Before Dishonor and Resurrection. I don't **_**intend**_** to write anything else in Slave Verse.**

Peter reached back, gasping with pain. He turned his head so his nose reknit from being broken when he'd fallen on the floor. He touched the back of his head, feeling the skin slick and new where the implant had been. A moment later there was an itchy prickle as the hair extended from it and grew to the previous length. He had his abilities in full immediately, as his memories were intact this time around.

He raised himself to his hands and knees. Something he saw to his side caught him by surprise: Sylar lay dead in a slowly widening pool of blood. If Sylar hadn't still had the knife clutched in his hand, Peter would have thought someone had killed him. Even so, he reached out to touch the knife and confirm it, pulling the memory from the blade. Peter felt like his heart fell out of his chest at seeing that. He'd committed suicide at the moment of their success. Peter's eyes filled with water. A motion caught his eye as Nathan rose to his feet and staggered.

Peter rocked back onto his haunches, balancing on knees and toes. He looked up at Nathan, who stopped at the realization that Peter was alive, awake and aware of him. Nathan's eyes dropped to the inhibitor implant on the floor, then went back to Peter's face. He knew there were few limits to what Peter could do and any yell or other attempt to summon aid was futile. He was breathing a little fast and shallow, Peter could see. His fear was palpable. Peter stood.

Nathan started to retreat, but he only made it two steps before telekinesis caught him. "Pete…" he said, looking at his brother and struggling with his broken face. Nathan looked from Sylar's body to Peter, brows pulled together. He was upset and confused. How had all this happened? Why? Why had he said he loved Sylar?

Peter opened his mind to Nathan, listening to his thoughts and making it known to Nathan that he could hear him. _I'm here. You don't have to speak out loud._ Peter manipulated Nathan's mind slightly, dampening the sensation of pain and leaving only numbness in place of his injuries.

Nathan relaxed a little at the cessation of hurt. He felt a surge of cautious gratitude and equally cautious hope. _Pete… he's dead. You don't have to do this. There's no reason to - not anymore. If he… controlled you… that's over now. This was a mistake. I'll forgive you. Just like I always have._ Peter's next words chilled him to the bone.

_No one controls me now._ Peter looked down at Sylar, tears falling down his face as he thought about what might have caused the man to choose death over a life with Peter. Had he misread Sylar so badly? He remembered the ability he'd learned from that old Mexican and scanned Sylar's body with it. There was no life. He was dead, which meant he couldn't bring him back with mere healing. It would take other methods, the easiest of which was the serum derived from Claire's blood. He didn't have time for it though - not yet. At any moment, Erica or Dwayne, both of whom could neutralize abilities, could come through the door and then it would be all over.

_Why? _Nathan thought to him. _He wants to be dead. He killed __**himself**__. I want to be with you, Peter. Come to me, Pete. Come to me. I need you._ Nathan's thoughts were gentle, though Peter knew from long experience the degree of manipulation was under them. He didn't need to probe deeper to know Nathan was trying to save his own life, though it wasn't entirely unfeeling. There would be, as there always was, a thread of love for him - which was why Peter didn't look.

_No,_ Peter thought, but he walked around Sylar's body and the puddle of blood, going to Nathan anyway.

Seeing his sad, withdrawn expression, Nathan stiffened against the telekinesis. _Pete?_

Peter reached out and touched Nathan's left forearm, the one he was using to hold his broken right arm. The room vanished and they were in a cloud, surrounded by grey vapor. Peter was unsatisfied with where he was, so he teleported again and this time they were hanging in the air under the stars, the ocean rolling slowly a few hundred feet below them.

Peter felt Nathan's flight kick in, supporting himself, and he withdrew most of the telekinesis. All he needed to do was anchor his brother in place. A single ankle was tethered and it was enough. Peter drifted away, out of arm's reach and gave Nathan a moment alone.

Nathan looked around at where they were. Anguish, regret and desperation washed through him. The desperation was last. He let it go, but kept the others. He turned his eyes to the stars and then the faint curve of the horizon, so distant it was almost lost against the night sky. _It's beautiful out here, Pete._ It was a better place to die than the bunker. After a long pause, he added, _Thank you._

_I don't have much time._

_I know._ And Nathan did know. He knew what Peter was saying. He was saying he was going to kill him and that under other circumstances he would have done more to allow Nathan to come to terms with his last moments. _You were always considerate, Pete. I love you. Even now._

_I know._ Peter came closer, resisting the ingrained habit of telling Nathan he loved him in return. He didn't think he did love him anymore, or at least not the same way. He grieved for that lost love, even though it had been dead and gone for a long time. He reached out his hand for Nathan's forehead, but the older brother shook his head.

_Let me kiss you one last time._

Peter blinked and sighed, chest heaving.

_Please?_ Nathan asked.

Peter wiped at his face, then cupped one hand on the uninjured side of Nathan's face. He shut his eyes and pressed his lips to Nathan's gently, on the better side. It was the best he could manage. Nathan's hand brushed his hip and he moved his lips slowly against Peter's, oh-so-familiar to him after all these years, the golden child, his baby brother who was everything. He thought about apologizing for all he'd done, but there didn't seem to be a point. Peter knew his heart. He always had. Until today, it had always been enough.

_Are you sure about this?_ Nathan asked. Peter nodded. Nathan considered the declarations of love he'd heard Sylar and Peter give one another. Peter had found something else, someone he wanted more than Nathan. His heart was empty and desolate at that. It had been a mistake to send Peter out to deal with the resistance, but clearly Peter had been miserable being with Nathan before that. He'd hoped the time away would heal him and apparently it had. His brother hadn't healed the way Nathan had expected.

More tears fell silently from Peter's eyes. He moved the hand from Nathan's cheek up to his forehead. Nathan pressed forward into it, his eyes steady on Peter, making him the last thing he knew while alive. He'd died many times, but he knew this would be the last. A moment later, the light died behind his eyes. Peter caught the body with telekinesis and disintegrated it. He watched the ashes fall, scattering in the breeze.

* * *

Peter wiped his eyes angrily, sniffling and wishing he had kept Nathan's handkerchief at least. But no, he wouldn't have used it. He shook his head and turned invisible, then teleported back. He tapped into the security system, checking the hallway outside the room they'd been in. As he'd expected, people were swarming the room. He went to security and pushed the thought that Nathan had ordered the room emptied prior to cleaning and that he'd give a briefing within an hour. Security passed along the orders.

He went to the special lockers, teleporting past all the locked doors and telling the security systems not to go off once he was within. They obeyed. He phased his arm into the storage containers, pulling out what he needed. Then he went back to the room where Sylar was.

Noah Bennet was still in the room. Given his position in Nathan's inner circle, orders from security, even if supposedly coming from Nathan himself, weren't necessarily binding on him. Peter dropped the invisibility and the illusion, appearing as himself: naked, blood-spattered, tear-tracked. Noah jumped and looked at him, then looked at him again, very intently. He looked around the room as if with new eyes. He turned back to Peter and said, "Nathan's not coming back, is he?"

"No. Not the Nathan you knew," Peter said, going to Sylar. He lifted the body from the floor and laid him on the couch. He looked at Noah and said, "Clean him."

"With what?"

"Find something." Peter didn't bother to look at Noah, as his eyes were still on Sylar. He slowly wiped the blood from his lover's face, feeling his eyes water again. He shook his head. He had things to do. He walked over to Blake and picked him up. He teleported out, disposing of the corpse much as he had Nathan's. When he came back, Noah was wiping determinedly at Sylar's face with a shirt he'd removed from Trevor and water from a pitcher that had been to one side in the room. Peter disposed of Trevor's body as well.

He returned and nudged Noah away. The man walked off, doing his best to wash off his hands. He kicked the dirty shirt under the couch. Peter lifted Sylar's head and slid himself in so Sylar rested in his lap. He pulled over one of the syringes and hesitated, looking at the man, replaying in his mind where Sylar had said he'd rather die. Peter had thought, at the time, that he was saying he'd rather die than perform sexually for Nathan's amusement. He also hadn't thought Sylar was serious. He bent and kissed his forehead, still warm, but cooling. He'd been serious all right.

Sylar had killed himself after they'd won, when victory was theirs. True, Peter hadn't shared the whole plan with him, but he couldn't be sure if Sylar's mind would be scanned for threat or deception. It hadn't happened, but it might have, and if he'd told Sylar everything and he'd been checked, then it would have been a disaster. Peter looked up at Noah and said, "I don't know why he killed himself."

Noah's lips pressed together slightly, taking in Peter's tears and his gentle cradling of Sylar's head in his lap, his subtle rocking in distress that Peter himself didn't realize he was doing. "Bring him back and ask him."

"I think I might know," Peter whispered, staring forward at the second syringe on the table. He hoped that was the reason. He hoped Sylar had left him because of his abilities. That was something Peter could give back to him, if he'd accept it. He'd always planned to. He worried that Sylar wouldn't take it, that now that he'd seen how damaged Peter was, that he wouldn't want him. He sniffled and looked at the needle in his hand, full of resurrection serum. There was only one way to find out. He used it.


End file.
